


it takes two to tango, and other dance cliches

by wistfulwatcher



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, and so much cheeeeese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulwatcher/pseuds/wistfulwatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hey,” Regina hears from behind her, and when she turns she sees Emma standing there, hands stuffed in her back pockets. “So I guess it’s you and me?” Looking around, she sees that the entire rest of the class has in fact partnered up. Emma doesn’t look very promising, but considering her only other real option is to continue practicing on her own in front of a dozen or so other adults, it seems Emma will have to do. </i>
</p><p>In which Regina signs up for ballroom dance lessons and Emma turns out to not be the worst possible thing to happen to her. Not that she would ever say such a thing out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. waltz, twice, three times a partner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fievre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fievre/gifts).



> A tremendous amount of gratitude to my beta [agathasajax](http://agathasajax.tumblr.com) for doing a beautiful (and speedy!) job editing this story ~~and dealing with my flakiness like a champ~~. Any remaining errors are most definitely my own. And a huge thank you to Tiff and Lola for running yet another very fun (and exhausting, someone help me with time management skills) event! (And extra extra thanks to Tiff for being my lovely cheerleader ❤❤❤)
> 
> Please check out the gorgeous cover art fievre has made for this fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4688672)!
> 
> One note for the fic (as it just _did not_ want to fit itself into the text): Henry is not Emma's biological child.

She knows she’s made a mistake before the class even begins.

For starters, the dance studio is small; it looks like it can barely handle five people, let alone the fifteen or so that are in the room. Regina chose the school specifically because it was far away from her office—even the _thought_ of someone knowing she signed up for dance lessons makes her grimace—but may have overshot given the dilapidated building they’re in and the paint peeling off of the walls in the hallway.

Secondly, the majority of those signed up for the class seem to be Regina’s age, but they also seem to know each other, judging by the fact that several are standing in cliquey little groups, talking. They’re _bubbly_ , likely here to meet new people and make friends, and a sneer stretches across her face before she can suppress it.

But the biggest clue is the instructor. Regina had found _Miss Blanchard’s Ballroom for Beginners_ class online, and judging by the name she had expected someone older, more reserved. Someone more _refined_. Instead, Miss Blanchard is all wide smiles and teeth and sparkling eyes as she personally greets every person that comes through the door.

Including Regina.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Miss Blanchard grins as she extends her hand, and Regina hesitates longer than appropriate before she takes it. “Is this your first dance class?”

Miss Blanchard is still holding her hand, but Regina pulls it back, a tight lipped smile all she can muster in the face of the other woman’s enthusiasm. “It is.”

“Excellent,” she says, eyes crinkling as her smile widens. Those _teeth_ again. “You can set your things down over there,” she gestures to a table in the corner of the room, covered in coats and bags. “If you need to change there’s a bathroom down the hall where you came in. We’re going to be starting in about ten minutes,” she adds, glancing at the clock barely hanging on the wall.

“Alright,” Regina manages, as the woman's effervescence mellows a little when she shares the information. _Perhaps she’ll be more tolerable once we begin_ , Regina tries to tell herself. Miss Blanchard smiles once more before touching Regina’s forearm with a gentle pat and turning away. Her long yellow skirt flows wide around her calves, and Regina breathes out slowly.

The studio is warm, and the light Spring trenchcoat she has on is already stifling, so she begins to unbuckle the belt as she moves into the studio to the table Miss Blanchard had mentioned. It doesn’t look incredibly stable. The weight of the few items already on the tabletop looks like it’s testing the strength of every screw holding it together.

Lips pursed, she slides her bag off of her shoulder slowly, and sets it on the side of the table pressed up against the wall. She unbuttons the coat next, and slips it off before folding it over once and setting it down beside her purse.

Across the room she hears a few people shouting and laughing, and when she turns back to face the door she sees a couple entering the studio, and waving at a few of the others. Regina’s barely been here for five minutes, and she’s already feeling out of place.

Most of the other women are in longer skirts or yoga pants, and Regina glances down at the grey sheath dress she’s wearing. It’s movable, something she’d considered before dressing in the morning, but it’s likely not going to be ideal. Still, it’s what she’s worn, so she runs her hands over the front to smooth out any wrinkles from her jacket and pulls her phone from her purse.

It’s not quite 7pm, and since she has time before the class begins she wants to check in with Henry. Immediately she sees a text from Marian, but when she opens it the message just reads: **Henry had dinner and is doing his homework. He wants me to tell you to have fun. Please, just try?**

Regina’s lips twitch at the text, at the sentiment from her son and the exasperation from her friend. Glancing around, she sees that the majority of the others are still in their little groups, talking animatedly and laughing. Exhaling slowly, she types back: **I’m surrounded by teenagers in the bodies of thirtysomethings. Fun in this situation seems highly unlikely.**

She’s locking her phone and putting it away when she hears, “I haven’t seen you around here before,” in an overly-silky voice behind her. Turning, she sees a shark of a man, teeth bared in a way he seems to think is charming.

Rather than reply to the obvious come-on, she waits for him to identify why he’s talking to her. He seems confused at first, a little speechless at her lack of response. “I’m Dr. Victor Whale,” he holds out a hand. “And you are?”

Her irritation is instant; she has no interest in tiptoeing around this man, especially after a long day. Baring her own teeth, she gives a false smile. “Not interested,” she says, and holds eye contact with him as his hand drops to his side.

“OK, it looks like we’re ready to start,” Miss Blanchard says near the mirrored wall at the front of the small room.

Regina follows the others as they move closer to the front, and brushes past Dr. Whale to the other side of the room. She has a feeling she knows what kind of _fun_ Marian would like her to have, but even if she were open to the idea—and she absolutely is not—it wouldn’t be with anyone who drops a title in their first ten words.

“It looks like we have a few new faces today,” she smiles at two girls in the back, and then looks at Regina, her eyes soft and face sweet. Regina fights the urge to roll her eyes. “My name is Mary Margaret, and I think it’d be nice to introduce ourselves first.”

 _Lovely_ , Regina grits her teeth. “Circle up,” Mary Margaret gestures with her hand, and the class steps back until they roughly form a circle. “David, will you start?”

“I’m David,” he holds a palm up in greeting, before looking to his left and nodding for the woman beside him to go. They’re halfway through the circle—just about to Regina—when she sees movement at the now-closed double doors to the room. They open almost silently, just a small thud as the right door separates from the left, and then a woman starts to slip through them, moving carefully.

It’s clear she’s trying not to pull focus, in the way she holds the handle bar down and rolls her shoulders to the side. However her movements aren’t graceful, her arms are too long and she knocks the toe of her boot into the other door as she tries to turn to close them.

“I’m Ariel,” the woman beside her says in a sweet voice, and before Regina can take her turn, the woman at the door completely wipes out; her bag catches between the doors as they close, and in tugging on the strap she ends up flat on her back.

The rest of the circle finally notices her at the noise, and Regina purses her lips to still the amusement spreading across them. “Emma,” Mary Margaret says sadly, disappointment hinting at the edge of the name.

“Sorry I’m late,” she winces, and stands up, finally tugging her messenger bag free and letting the doors close with a bang.

Emma tries to duck her head as she moves toward the coat table, and Mary Margaret moves her focus off of the other woman and back to Regina. She raises her brows to indicate Regina should introduce herself.

“My name is Regina,” she murmurs, and tries not to get stuck watching the clumsy woman struggling to take her hideous leather jacket off. Emma hurries from the table to join the end of the circle next to Mary Margaret, smiling apologetically at the teacher as the circle wraps up introductions.

“Wonderful,” Mary Margaret claps her hands once, and reclaims her place at the front of the room. “Tonight we’ll be working on the waltz, so we’ll start off with some of the basics, and then we can break off into pairs.

“Let’s spread out, and everyone can find some space.” Regina walks slowly closer to the wall behind her, and clasps her hands in front of her, waiting. One of the other women—Mulan, if she remembers correctly—comes to stand at her side, an appropriate distance away, and nods at her in acknowledgement, but nothing more. It’s a nice change from the loud squealing and laughing from the other students, and Regina settles a bit.

Almost as soon as she thinks it there’s another bark of laughter behind her, and she can’t help but turn toward the sound. It’s Emma, who apparently insists on being a disruption through the whole class. Regina watches for a moment in disgust as she elbows one of the younger men in the side before she pulls her long hair up into a ponytail.

“We’re going to start with the basic box step,” Mary Margaret says, and the room starts to quiet again. “As the name implies, we’re going to be making a square with our movements. Start with your left foot,” she taps her thigh softly, “and step forward.”

She waits for the rest of the class to copy the movement. “Now bring your right foot up to meet the left, and over to your right side so you’ve made an L with your steps.” Regina does as instructed, up and over, and settles in the new spot. “And now to finish the box, we step back with our right foot, then over with our left.” She finishes the step. “Up and over, back and over. Go ahead and try it.”

Regina hesitates a moment, feeling foolish and exposed in the front row, and doing something so simple. Gritting her teeth, she tries to focus on her own movements only, stepping forward, then to the side, back and to the side.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Mary Margaret says, as she walks along the front of the line. “Keep going.”

Shaking her hair back over her shoulders, Regina repeats her movements, feeling far too stiff with her small steps and angular movement. “Perfect, Regina,” Mary Margaret smiles at her as she passes, and the compliment makes Regina grit her teeth harder.

They continue like this for at least two full minutes, but Regina has already done the step what feels like a hundred times. Still the repetition is oddly soothing, and she falls into the rhythm easily.

“Now,” Mary Margaret says, drawing their focus back up. “For each half of the box, you’re going to take a quarter turn,” she says, and raises her arms up in her frame as she demonstrates. “Take your first step forward, and pivot your body to the right so that your second step,” she taps her right leg before returning to her hold, “lands with you facing the other wall.” Dropping her arms, she nods, “Go ahead.”

Regina feels more foolish this time—somehow—as she pivots her body per the instruction and turns to see Mulan’s back as she does the same. Again, and Emma is in front of her, shoulders slouched but arms slightly raised like she’s copying Mary Margaret.

Regina must be a split-second slower than Emma, who turns to catch her out of the corner of her eye before Regina’s feet move again, turning her toward the wall beside her, head forward. “Excellent,” Mary Margaret beams, and soft music starts to fill the room. “Keep going.”

She moves from the wall, to the front, to Mulan—looking uncomfortable, but rather graceful—and then to Emma. Regina keeps her focus forward this time, moving to the music and watching her breathing as she twirls.

“Wonderful! Alright, let’s partner up, and we can talk about rise and fall.” The room starts to pair off, and Regina stays in her own dance space, feeling unexpectedly exposed. Dr. Whale catches her eye from a few feet away, the other women having mostly paired up already, but he barely takes a step toward her before he reroutes and smiles tightly at one of the older women near him, holding out his hand.

The dancers have almost all been paired off, Mulan and a shy man with glasses being one of the last, and Regina holds her head up high and doesn’t shift on her heels at the odd sense of rejection she feels.

“Hey,” Regina hears from behind her, and when she turns she sees Emma standing there, hands stuffed in her back pockets. “So I guess it’s you and me?”

Looking around, she sees that the entire rest of the class has in fact partnered off. Still, she turns to Emma and sizes her up; she’d rather not end up with a broken toe, considering the clumsiness Regina has witnessed already.

Emma’s got knee-high boots on over skinny jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt pushed up to her elbows. She’s tall and lean, almost a little gangly, and Regina finds it likely that she doesn’t have the greatest control of her limbs. Overall, Emma doesn’t look very promising. But considering her only other real option is to continue practicing on her own in front of a dozen or so other adults, it seems she will have to do.

“I suppose it is,” Regina finally answers, and takes a step closer to her.

“Emma Swan,” she holds out a hand, but keeps the other in her pocket.

Regina is hesitant before she takes the proffered hand, but gives a small smile when Emma’s fingers settle for the briefest moment on her own. “Regina Mills,” she flips her hair away from her face with her free hand, and then pulls back from their handshake.

“OK, so now that you’re all paired up, David could you come demonstrate with me?” David smiles at Mary Margaret before weaving his way through a few couples, and coming to stand at her side. “Face your partner, and we’re going to go over the frame. Posture is very important in ballroom dance, and you need to make sure that you are standing up straight, lifting through your ribcage,” she illustrates her words, “and keep your shoulders parallel to the ground when you hold your frame.”

Mary Margaret raises her arms. “Ladies, you should have your right hand up like this,” she moves her wrist to indicate her right, fingers curled into a light C as she speaks, “at eye height. Your left hand will rest just below your partner’s shoulder, on their upper arm.”

Nodding her head, she looks at David. “Gentlemen, take your lady’s right hand with your left, and you will place your right hand with your fingers resting on her shoulder blade.” Mary Margaret quiets, and the couples turn to one another.

“Uh,” Emma starts, shifting between her feet. “Want me to lead?”

Regina waits for a moment before she slowly agrees. “If you’d like,” she says with a nod, and raises her arms up, shoulders back. When Emma doesn’t immediately step into their hold, she quirks a brow. “Is something the matter?”

“Uh, no,” she steps forward, and settles her fingers around Regina’s hand. It takes a moment for Regina to place her hand on Emma’s arm, and as she slides her palm up she can’t help but notice the strong muscle there, surprising on such a slight—and uncoordinated—woman. Perhaps gangly isn’t quite an appropriate adjective after all.

Regina looks up and they are much closer than she realized, even though they have plenty of space between them. Still, Emma is a stranger, and so when she closes that distance so she can settle her hand on Regina’s back, Regina swallows hard.

Emma’s hand is too low, resting on her waist, and so Regina looks her in the eye. “I believe your hand goes on my _back_ , Miss Swan,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “I understand you may have some issues with spatial reasoning, but I prefer not begroped as you work those out.”

“Sorry,” Emma winces, and her hand slides up from Regina’s waist to her upper back. Her fingers glance the dip of her spine on the way up and Regina can’t help but feel gooseflesh rise on her arms.

“Keep your elbows up,” Mary Margaret instructs, “and try your box step with your partner.”

Emma looks back to her from Mary Margaret, and clears her throat. “So uh,” she says as she steps forward with her left foot. Regina barely has a chance to step back herself, and she narrows her eyes. “You saw that?”

Emma gestures toward the door with her head, and Regina purses her lips. She steps forward now as Emma steps back. “Your graceful entrance, dear? How could I have missed it?

“Great,” Emma rolls her eyes, but her eyes are full of self-deprecating humor when she looks at Regina. It’s a little startling, holding eye contact with another person for this long, in this close proximity. A stranger, no less. “I hate those doors,” she mumbles, and her fingers flex on Regina’s back.

“Perhaps you should be on time then,” Regina can’t help but respond, and she holds Emma’s eyes even as they narrow at the comment.

“Yeah, I guess I should,” her words are a concession, but her tone is placating, and Regina angles her head to the side a bit, intrigued.

“And now turning,” Mary Margaret announces as she and David begin to turn around in a circle with their movements.

Emma begins to spin them, and Regina tries to take larger steps to match Emma’s pace. It seems Regina’s comment has struck a nerve.

“Shouldn’t you be dancing with your friend?” Regina asks after they’ve turned in a full circle.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Emma asks, “What?” Regina nods over Emma’s shoulder to the man she’d been elbowing. “Will?” She snorts, and shakes her head. “No way. He comes here to hit on girls. Plus he’s like a brother to me.”

“I see,” Regina murmurs, and refocuses on the dance steps. They’re becoming second nature again, falling into an easy step with Emma. She’s not big on small talk, or getting to know a stranger, to be quite honest, but the thought of being this close to this stranger in silence seems somehow less appealing. “Does that mean you come here often?” Regina asks.

And Emma starts laughing, her eyes twinkling with amusement as her arms start to fall out of hold and her shoulders slump. Regina stops moving, her eyes narrowing, and she realizes what she’s said. With a grimace, she pulls her hand from Emma’s and holds it up. “That wasn’t—”

“I had a feeling you weren’t the type to pull your punches, but…” she trails off, and before Regina can respond, Mary Margaret pulls their focus again.

“It looks like everyone has it, so now let’s go over rise and fall.” Regina drops her hand from Emma’s arm and turns toward the front, glancing only once at Emma out of the corner of her eye. Embarrassment still burns hot in her chest, and she breathes slowly to try and snuff it out.

“When you step forward, be sure to shift your weight to the ball of your foot, so that your heel lifts from the ground. You’ll stay on the balls of your feet as you move, but your heels should drop a bit further to the ground when you take the second step, so you have rise,” she and David demonstrate slowly, freezing on the rise. “And fall,” and they both step into place, their heels dropping lower, but not touching the ground. “Rise,” they take another step, raising on the balls of their feet, “and fall,” and settle so their heels touch the ground.

“So we’ve gone over the basic step, now let’s talk about turns. For the men, you’re going to start the box step like always,” David leads her forward. “But then you’re going to raise your left hand higher, and guide the woman through your arm. Then finish the box, and only pivot to meet her at the end.

“Ladies, you’re going to go under his arm on step two, then take step three, and another one, two three,” she steps in a circle, “to meet him again.” She and David demonstrate a few more times, before they turn to face the rest of the class. “Thank you, David,” she smiles, and he heads back to his partner in the middle of the room.

Regina licks her lips, hopefully ready to move past her unfortunate comment, but Emma is smiling at her when they face each other again. “Shall we?”

Nodding sharply, Regina steps back into Emma’s space and takes her hand again, resting her own back into position. Mary Margaret turns the music up, and Emma resettles her hand on Regina’s shoulder blade. Her fingers grip Regina’s hand a bit tighter now, and she steps forward until they are close.

Emma moves forward, Regina back, and she tries to focus on staying on the balls of her feet. The rise is easier than she’d expected, and when Emma starts to rotate them again to move in a wider arc, she follows easily. “Turn?” she prompts, and when Regina nods in confirmation Emma holds her hand up high, and lets Regina spin beneath.

Her steps are small and a bit too slow, but Emma pivots like she’s supposed to, and is there to meet Regina as she comes back into her space. “You’re a natural,” Emma smiles, but there’s a hint of a smirk behind it, like she’s teasing Regina. “Now we’re even on the pick-up lines, right?”

“Mine wasn’t a pick-up line,” Regina bristles, but continues to follow Emma’s movements back, to the side, forward, to the side.

“And neither was mine,” Emma shrugs as she guides Regina into another spin. When they rejoin, Emma applies a bit of pressure to her back, and lifts their arms until they’ve angled a bit to finish the spin.

“You don’t seem all that inexperienced,” Regina notes, and is sure to keep her expression neutral and free of all traces of innuendo—despite the words that seem to scream anything but, suddenly.

Thankfully, Emma doesn’t comment this time, just continues to sway Regina around the room. While the motion had been a bit soothing earlier, it’s starting to become almost enjoyable; she’s not _entirely_ displeased with her presence in the class, it seems.

“I’ve been to a handful of these classes. Plus I’m friends with a few of the others,” she nods her chin toward Will, “and Mary Margaret’s my roommate.”

Regina can’t help but raise her brows at the last bit. “I see,” she murmurs, but doesn’t, exactly. Emma is friendly, but doesn’t seem quite as _chipper_ as the other woman.

Pursing her lips, Emma looks at Regina for a long moment. Too long, really, with their close proximity and the pressure of Emma’s hand on her back. The feeling is beginning to grow into something pleasant, which Regina is _absolutely not here for_. Besides, she knows that it must have nothing to do with the woman who is touching her, and everything to do with the touch itself—something she stopped treating interchangeably years ago—considering how rare physical contact was these days.

“Yeah, trust me, I didn’t think it was going to work when we moved in together either.” Emma seems to tug her closer, and her steps begin to pick up in speed slightly, until they’re with the music perfectly. “But she had an extra room and I needed a place to crash…”

“Mmmm,” Regina murmurs, and lets music fill the silence between them

They continue to dance for several minutes, swaying gently with the steps. Their eyes meet several times, and each seems to be more and more intrusive, this shared moment between no-longer-strangers.

Eventually, Mary Margaret calls them back to the front to end the class. The hour has gone by more quickly than she’d expected, especially after her initial impression, and she’s not terribly dreading the second class next Thursday.

“It looked magical,” Mary Margaret swoons, and this time Regina does roll her eyes covertly as she turns to get her coat from the table at the back.

The dancing has left her warmer than expected, perspiration leaving the back of her neck slightly damp, and she runs her fingers through her hair to get it away from her warm face. “It’s more exercise than it seems, right?” Emma comments beside her, and she hums in acknowledgement.

It’s too warm for her coat right now, and her car is parked just around the corner of the building outside. So she slips her purse back on to her shoulder and drapes the coat over her arm. “There’s a diner, just a few blocks down that a few of us go to after,” Emma reaches toward the table to grab her jacket, and slips it on. “If you wanna come with.”

Regina watches Emma closely as she ducks her head under the strap of her messenger bag and adjusts it as she steps from the table to let another get their things. “I thought you weren’t using a line earlier,” Regina raises a brow slowly in challenge.

“I wasn’t,” Emma defends, and Regina watches her tilt her head down a little. “I mean, I’m not.” Her brows furrow a little. “It’s a group thing,” she says, and it sounds a bit guarded.

“Of course,” Regina nods, and shakes out her jacket before resettling it on her arm. “But I’m afraid I’ll need to pass. Good night, Miss Swan.”

She moves past her quickly, and tugs her phone from the purse pocket as she heads toward the door. “Bye, Regina,” she replies, and Regina barely hears it before she’s leaving through the double doors and heading down the hallway toward the exit.

* * *

“How was it?” Marian asks as she opens the door, a hopeful smile on her face.

Regina hesitates, but steps over the threshold when Marian gestures for her to come in. She’s cooled since the class, and her trench coat is back on her shoulders, but left unbuckled. “It was rather unexpected, I suppose.”

“And is that _good_ unexpected?” Her hopeful face grows a bit more mischievous, and she asks in a softer voice, “Did you dance with one of the teenage-thirtysomethings?”

Regina huffs out a laugh, and follows Marian through the foyer and toward the living room where she expects her son to be. Before they near the archway of the space, she licks her lips and clasps her hands in front of her. “I did,” she purses her lips. “One that came in ten minutes late and tripped all over herself in the process.”

“ _Her_ self,” Marian smiles slowly, and steps closer to Regina; one of about four living people that can without repercussion. Five, if she counts Emma Swan, though the thought alone is ridiculous. After all, it hardly seems fair to accept a stranger when the only reason to do so was circumstance. Clinical circumstance, even.

“Well,” Marian crosses her arms, and leans against the wall at her side. She’s dressed down for the night, in jeans and a homey sweater, a far cry from the suit she wore to the office that day. “I suppose that is unexpected for a dance class. Did you choose her?” Marian’s glee at such girl talk is apparent, and Regina only manages to contain her derision because she has become accustomed to the flaw. Not to mention that Kathryn and Marian usually get this aspect of friendship out of their systems with the other, leaving Regina out of it.

Unless she is the source of that girl talk, it would seem. “No,” she replies easily. “There were more women than men.”

Marian shakes her head a bit. “And you didn’t approach anyone,” she concludes. “Well, I like this girl already if she wasn’t scared off by your aloofness.” Regina narrows her eyes but the threat is hollow. “Henry’s watching TV if you need to get going.”

“Thank you,” Regina exhales, grateful to be moving off of the previous topic of conversation.

“He’s always welcome here, you know,” and Marian’s hand brushes her back as she guides Regina forward. “Plus it gives me some quiet time when Roland is in that big-kid-worship-mode,” she whispers, leaning close with a warm grin.

Their boys have been around each other since Roland was born five years ago, and Regina smiles when they walk into the living room, Roland sitting on the floor, his back against Henry’s leg.

“Hey, mom,” Henry smiles when he sees her come through the doorway. “How was your class?”

“It was fine, dear,” Regina smiles back at him, already growing too big for the 13-year-old he is. “Did you have a nice night?”

“Of course,” Henry beams at his aunt Marian standing at the back of the couch, before she strokes the back of his hair lovingly. “You ready to go?” he asks, and flips on his phone to check the time.

“Yes, do you have everything?”

“In my bag by the door,” he nods, and ruffles Roland’s hair at his knee. “Hey Ro, I gotta go.” Roland looks up at him with those sad, giant, child eyes, and shakes his head.

“So,” Marian slides up to Regina’s side as Roland starts tugging at Henry’s leg—a fight they’ve both seen too many times to count. “When’s your next class?”

“Next week, Thursday.” Marian smiles, and Regina ignores it. “Would you mind picking Henry up again that night?”

“Of course not. Are you going to dance with your klutz?” Regina purses her lips at the moniker.

“The classes cycle through, I have no idea if she’ll be there again.”

“But you want to,” Marian raises her brows, wanting _something_ from her friend.

“Roland, why don’t you come say goodbye to Henry at the door?” Regina ignores Marian’s narrowed eyes at her change of subject, and holds out an arm as Roland rounds the couch to hug her hip.

They walk toward the door, and Regina brushes Roland’s hair away from his face as Henry slips his backpack onto his shoulder.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind,” she says on a sigh, owing Marina a scrap of gossip for babysitting. “She didn’t step on my toes once,” Regina muses, “which was _also_ rather unexpected.”

“You know, if she’s good on the dance floor—”

“Goodnight, dear,” Regina cuts her off pointedly, and bends down to kiss Roland on the top of the head. “Henry will be back next week, Roland.”

“See ya then, bud,” he shakes Roland’s head lightly with his hand, and then gives Marian a hug before he heads out the door. Regina wonders where it comes from, sometimes—Henry’s affectionate nature—when she herself is only really demonstrative with him.

“So," Henry draws out as they head down the pathway from the house. "You danced with a _girl_?” Regina looks over at him as she falls into step beside Henry. The question seems teasing—and rhetorical—judging by his smirk. “And you didn’t hate her?”

This time he looks over, and she raises a brow. "It’s rude to eavesdrop, Henry,” she scolds lightly out of habit, but her face falls slightly as she considers his words. “Because she was a woman?”

Slowing as they near the Benz parked at the curb, Henry snorts. “No, because she was a person.” Pursing her lips at her son's snark, Regina slows, too, until they've stopped at the passenger side door. As she reaches into her purse for the keys, Henry asks in a smaller voice, “You met someone you like?”

She's not exactly sure what he's asking, but his question seems heavier than the previous comments. "There are people I like,” she says easily, and resettles her purse on her shoulder. "I like you. I like Roland. And Kathryn and Marian,” _most of the time_ , she adds in her head.

But Henry tilts his head down a little, an unimpressed look on his face. "You know what I mean."

Regina's back stiffens under Henry's stare, and she leans down to unlock the car door before opening it. What he's implying is something they've never discussed—the possibility of her dating—and to be honest, it's not a conversation she ever intends to—or expects to  _need_ to—have. After losing her husband a decade ago, and having her son pull away from her for almost two years after discovering he was adopted—and only just getting him back the past year—dating is the furthest thing from her mind. 

Not to mention that—should she ever consider it—she's not quite sure how Henry would feel about the idea. If he would go through a fresh sense of rejection and abandonment, if it would make him feel like he wasn't enough for her. If he would pull away from her again. Possibilities she can't stomach even in the abstract.

Flipping her hair back from her face, she turns back to him with a dismissive, "I'm not there to meet anyone, Henry. I'm doing this to learn a skill."

Henry's eyes narrow a bit as he watches her face. "Honestly?"

Regina bristles at the challenge, and the memory of the pact they'd made to be open with one another. "Honestly, dear."

"'kay," he gives her a small but genuine smile, satisfied with her answer, and slips into the passenger seat.

* * *

The next class day comes quickly, after a long, busy stretch at work. By Wednesday, she’d considered not going back, the idea of spending an hour in that dance room nearly exhausting on its own.

But Marian—and Kathryn, once the two have had a chance to talk—have spent their time making sure Regina will be doing just that. **Is she there again?** comes the text from Kathryn, a similar one from Marian not far behind. She ignores them both, and walks into the room quickly, heading straight to the back to deposit her bag and coat. Glancing up as she turns, she sees much of the same crowd as the previous week, but possibly a few different faces. “Hello,” Shy Glasses smiles at her, setting a briefcase and jacket on the center of the table. “Regina, is it?”

“Hello,” she nods, and he slips his glasses off of his nose.

“I’m Archie, it’s nice to meet you.” He wipes his glasses off with a cloth from his pocket and slips them back on his nose. “Was last week your first class?”

Regina crosses her arms over her chest, guarded at the question. “It was. Yours as well?”

He smiles genuinely, and slips his hands into his pockets. “It’s rather fun, isn’t it?” he continues to make conversation, and Regina glances at the clock on the wall—possibly more precariously hung than the previous week—and notes they should be starting soon.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Archie looks over her shoulder toward the door, and rocks a bit on his heels as he points out, “It looks like your partner is here. Have a nice night, Regina,” he smiles again and steps away from the table to stand beside an older man named Marco.

Emma has indeed arrived, and when she walks through the door she heads to Mary Margaret at the front, who is talking to David animatedly again. Her hand settles on his arm quickly in a familiar gesture, and then she turns her hand to look around the room.

And her eyes settle on Regina. She gives her a small smile before she turns back toward her roommate and stands with them for a bit.

Regina feels warm, despite the light silk shell she wears with her dress pants, and she brushes her hair back from her face as she walks over toward her space in the studio. She tries not to watch as Emma breaks from the others to drop her stuff on the table, but Regina can’t help but sneak a glance out of the corner of her eye as Emma passes.

Mary Margaret laughs at something David says, and then gestures for him to step back toward the rest of the class. “Welcome back,” she addresses toward the entire group, and puts her hands on her hips. “Tonight we’ll pick up where we left off last time with the standard waltz, so let’s partner up.”

“Hey,” Emma slides up next to her, and when Regina turns she’s got both hands stuffed in her back pockets. “I guess it’s us, again?” her eyes open a bit further, and her lips thin as she says it. Behind her, Regina can see that there are still people partnering off; that they aren’t _stuck_ together quite yet, like they’d been the week before.

The implication of Emma seeking her out is a bit too strong, makes her feel like the “girl talk” she’d had to endure all week had a point, and that makes her uncomfortable.

She looks around for a moment, scans the rest of the people in the class. Most of them are young, perky, and Regina has no interest in attempting to partner with any of them. Archie had been calm and tolerable when she’d arrived, but when her eyes fall to him Mulan is tying her hair back into a low ponytail as she comes to stand at his side.

Regina looks back to Emma, shoulders rolled forward as she stands with her hands in her back pockets, a poster for bad posture. Still, she murmurs, “I suppose,” in her most disinterested voice. Emma’s shoulders loosen, but her brows furrow, and it looks like there’s a hint of hurt in her expression.

“Great,” she replies instead, and when she smiles it’s plastic and tight across her lips. “Do you wanna lead this time?”

“Alright,” Regina agrees slowly, a bit surprised at the question. At the front, Mary Margaret is starting to give a brief review of the basic box and turn, David once more helping her demonstrate.

Stepping forward, she raises her arms into frame slowly, the movements not quite as natural as she’s switching sides. Emma slips into her spot, taking Regina’s left hand and letting her own left settle on Regina’s shoulder. Her fingers are firm, but her palm rests gently, and her elbow lifts to let Regina reach around to her back.

Emma’s shoulder blade is solid under her hand, and when they move their arms to fit into their frame more securely, Regina can feel the strong bone shift underneath her hand. It’s an odd sort of intimacy, and she swallows when Emma steps even closer, their chests nearly touching.

The class begins to fall back into the rhythm of the previous week, and Regina takes a small step forward, glancing down at her feet for a moment until she can fall into a smooth sway. When she refocuses on Emma’s face, she can see how her neck is elongated, her shoulders straight, and her chin is held high.

“So,” Emma says, and Regina’s eyes slide up to meet hers. She feels a little caught at the way she was staring at Emma’s features, so she straightens up a bit, and starts to lead them into their rhythm. Emma doesn’t seem to notice, just adjusts her grip on Regina’s hand. “How come you’re taking lessons?”

Regina’s brow arches, and her fingers stiffen slightly on Emma’s back. “Why is that important?”

Emma lets out a low laugh. “Because I figure if we’re going to be doing this for a few more weeks we might as well—”

“ _Bond_?” she cuts Emma off to ask. Regina isn’t entirely sure she meant to, but Emma’s assumption that they’ll be partners for the rest of the lessons makes her nervous, makes her itch a bit. Makes her think too much about that toothy grin Marian gave her when she’d left work a few hours ago.

“I was going to say ‘be friendly’, but apparently that’s not likely any time soon.” Her words are harsh, but when Regina meets her eyes her expression is neutral.

It’s been so long since she’s started a relationship of any kind; the last had been with Marian and Kathryn at work, requiring little effort on her part and a lot of time. Quite frankly, Regina just isn’t sure how to interact with people in a personal—even casual—way.

Perhaps she’s beginning to understand why her friends are taking such joy in her attending these classes. And having a partner in any form.

She isn’t sure she’s comfortable with this reflection, or realizing just how long it has been since she’s had a friendly conversation with someone outside of the office. And Emma has been quiet since her comment, just dancing with her easily, and focusing on a spot beyond her shoulder.

There is something unusually appealing about the quick drop in the conversation, and the complete lack of pressure to continue speaking. “I’m taking these classes for work,” she finally says, and watches Emma’s reaction closely.

Her eyebrows twitch at the answer, and her movements become just a bit smaller. Lips quirking up in a smile, she snorts, “For _work_? What are you, a spy?”

“I’m afraid my answer will disappoint you, dear,” she says. “I work at a business consulting firm.” Holding out her arm she nods for Emma to spin. Once she’s settled again, Regina adds, “And sometimes we need to woo clients.”

“Woo them, huh?” Emma takes a step backward, amusement playing at her lips. “Woo them by taking them dancing,” she clucks her tongue, and Regina’s eyelashes flutter closed at the way Emma latches on to this.  She doesn’t know the woman well—barely knows her at all—but she has a feeling she’s just ramping up. “Who are your prospective clients, the cast of _RENT_? Billy Elliot?”

Regina opens her eyes. “Are you quite finished, Miss Swan?” she asks, meeting Emma’s eyes as they move away from the center of the room.

“The town from _Footloose_?”

Brows climbing in irritation, Regina levels Emma with a long look. The other woman doesn’t seem fazed in the least, however. Instead she smiles wide at Regina, and her hand slides up to the curve of her shoulder.

They’ve barely begun the class, and Regina begins to feel her exhaustion from the week begin to lift the tiniest bit as Emma lets the subject drop. “Wouldn’t dancing hurt our chances, in that scenario?”

Emma smiles like she’s trying not to, and her hand resettles in place. “Kevin Bacon, then, I don’t know. Or, that summer camp in the Catskills,” she taps her fingers on the back of Regina’s hand.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Dirty Dancing_ , for that last one.” Regina hums in acknowledgement. The music changes, but Regina can see Mary Margaret walking around the room, making corrections in the pairs, so she keeps them dancing. “And I suppose you’re taking this class as some sort of dance-movie junkie?”

“Hardly,” Emma laughs, and lets Regina spin her again. Once she’s back with her hand on Regina’s arm, she nods her chin toward Mary Margaret. “She makes me come to classes, sometimes. To make sure I’m not rotting away in our apartment, or something.”

“I see,” Regina murmurs. “And have you served your sentence now that you’ve come to two classes?”

Emma shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, and Regina _swears_ she can feel Emma’s fingers almost caress her shoulder as she adds, “I don’t think I mind so much this time.”

* * *

Before she can even knock on Marian’s door, Kathryn opens it. Her lips are curled up in an easy but knowing smile, and her eyes are glinting in the low porch light.

“Hello,” Regina purses her lips, and slows as she climbs the last of the few steps. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re here.”

Kathryn crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the frame. She’s blocking Regina’s entry into Marian’s house, and Regina has no doubt that’s her intention. “I don’t know what you mean, Regina. Marian invited me over for dinner.”

“Mmmm,” Regina hums dryly at Kathryn’s feigned innocence, and clasps her hands in front of her. “And did she tell you to keep me out of her house in return?”

Kathryn looks over her shoulder before stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door closed a bit. “There are two impressionable young boys in there, and I wanted to ask you how it went.”

Kathryn’s slight awkwardness around children—even the two boys she’s known for years now—never fails to make itself obvious in her behavior around them. “It was a dance class, dear. And we’re still just learning to waltz. There was nothing untoward about it.”

Kathryn’s lips curl up in a smile. “So there was an _it_?” Regina does nothing to suppress the irritated flutter of her eyes before she steps forward, brushing past Kathryn to enter her friend’s house. “She was there again?”

“She was?” Marian joins in, entering the foyer from the living room, and smiling at the conversation.

“She was,” Regina confirms, and holds up a hand. “And we danced again, and it was all very clinical.” Both women watch her like they’re waiting for more, for _something._ “I may as well have been learning how to crochet,” she adds, and her friends look at each other.

And _smile_. Like Regina gave something away with her denial. (Which, for the record, was just a clarification, not a defensive statement. In any way.) Sighing at the obvious joy they’re gleaning from her situation, Regina crosses her arms over her chest. “With the amount of reality television readily available to the two of you, there is no reason to turn my _very uneventful dance class_ into some great drama.”

Her friends continue to smile, their lips thinning as they try not to start laughing at her words, and so she drops her arms and walks past them to Marian’s living room. Henry is there as he was the previous week, and when Regina comes to stand behind the couch he looks up at her.

“Hi, Mom. How was it?” he asks, and it holds none of the expectation of her friends outside of the room. She’s never been more grateful.

Her mouth relaxes into a smile and her shoulders loosen a bit as she rests one hand on the top of her son’s head, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. “It was fine, thank you. How was school?”

He shrugs, and bounces his knees up to draw her attention to the open math book in his lap. “School. You ready to go?”

“Hey, Henry? Why don’t you keep working for a bit while we get your mother some tea?” Kathryn says in the archway behind them, eyes darting from Henry to Regina, and giving her a withering look that brooks no argument.

A large part of her would like to just collect Henry and leave, and avoid this _dish session_ she’s about to endure. But logically she know she can’t escape the talk completely, just postpone it, and she’d much rather have this discussion in the confines of Marian’s house than at work.

Henry puts his hand on hers over the back of the couch and says, “I’ve got a test tomorrow, so can we go home in like five minutes?” He’s giving her an out and she’s never been more comfortable with the idea of her little boy growing up.

“Sure, dear,” she squeezes his fingers— _my little hero_ —and turns to follow Kathryn into the kitchen. Marian is already at the stove heating the kettle, and Kathryn slips onto one of the stools at the counter. “Where’s Roland? I would have thought he’d be glued to Henry’s side as usual.”

“He had a field trip at school, so he went to bed early,” Marian says, and leans against the counter. “And you are not going to change the subject.”

Regina’s lips press into an almost grimace, but she takes the seat beside Kathryn, and rests her hands on the counter. “Truly, there’s nothing to tell.” And there isn’t. Although the light conversation she’d had with Emma hadn’t exactly been awful. And the way Emma was both playful—clearly not taking her roommate’s class seriously—and surprisingly smooth as she danced, was possibly the smallest bit charming.

“That’s not true,” Marian narrows her eyes, but her lips are quirked up in a small smile. There is nothing malicious about the way her friends are pressing her, but she doesn’t do personal talks, hasn’t in years. The idea of opening up to anyone—even her closest friends—is enough to make her shoulders stiffen defensively.

“I don’t recall you being there,” she snaps coolly, and it isn’t anywhere near the venom she would give to anyone else, but it’s crueler than she usually is with these two and she clenches her jaw at her own behavior.

But Marian’s smile doesn’t fall, just softens in understanding. And beside her Kathryn leans her head on her hand, like she’s settling in for a long wait, if that’s what it takes.

Curse her patient, patient friends. And their girl talk.

Exhaling, she laces her fingers together. “She invited me out again, after class.”

“ _Again_?” both women ask, catching the detail left out after the previous week’s class.

Regina doesn’t blush—she’s a _thirty-eight year old widow_ after all, not a schoolgirl—but discomfort settles into her spine and makes her want to shift on the stool. “Not in a romantic sense. She asked if I would like to join the class in getting a late dinner after the lesson.”

The kettle whistles, and as Marian lifts it from the burner of the stove, Kathryn smiles too-sweetly at her and tilts her head a bit. “That sounds like a date to me, Regina.”

Brows rising, Regina scoffs, “With other people?” before she can stop herself. Because it doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t a romantic invitation— _which it was not_ —Regina isn’t interested in anyone, let alone a woman likely ten years her junior with the coordination off the dance floor to match.

Pouring the water for their tea, Marian glances up through her lashes with a sympathetic smile. “I believe the kids call them group dates,” she teases.

“Group _hangs_ , moms,” Kathryn corrects, eyes sparkling. Marian laughs as she steeps the tea, and Regina feels a smile tugging at her own lips. When she reaches for the mug Marian starts to slide her way, Kathryn reaches out, and sets gentle fingers on her wrist, and clears her throat.

She stiffens, knowing what’s coming next, and the humor leaves her face, her body. “Regina,” she begins, and holds firm even as Regina starts to pull her arm back. “I’m not going to push,” she looks to Marian, “ _neither_ of us is. But we just wanted to remind you that it _is_ OK...”

Kathryn doesn’t finish her sentence, and Marian just watches her with kind eyes, reiterating her sentiment. That it’s OK for Regina to move on, to date someone, to stop mourning Daniel.

They’re both wrong, of course; she will never stop mourning the death of her husband.

Her vision begins to blur slightly and so she blinks, slips her hand from Kathryn’s grip and brings the mug Marian has made for her to her lips. It’s hot—scalding, nearly—but the slight pain of the heated porcelain is a good distraction from the topic at hand.

Both women are still waiting for a response, and Regina is ready to give her usual _it’s not OK_ , and _I don’t want to move on_ , and _that is all I have to say on the matter_. But her week has been long, and she is tired from the class, from dancing with Emma and speaking with her and all that _bonding_.

So instead she raises the mug to her lips to blow air on the water, and murmurs, “You’re both grasping at straws, I’ve barely known this woman a week.”

Marian slides Kathryn a mug, and leans over the counter to rest her elbows on the wood. “This isn’t about her, Regina, not really.” Regina catches Kathryn nodding softly in the corner of her eye. “We just wanted to remind you that if you were to start developing romantic feelings for someone—in a week or in ten more years—that Daniel would want you to be open to that.”

Regina’s shoulders tense further, and she sets the mug down as she stands. It doesn’t matter how close she’s become to these women, hearing anyone speak for her husband sends chills up her spine.

“Thank you for picking Henry up again, Marian.” She slides her hands over her coat. “I’ll see you both at work tomorrow.”

“Regina—” Kathryn starts, but quiets as Regina’s jaw clenches, her displeasure clear. “See you tomorrow,” she finishes instead, and wraps her hands around her mug as Regina turns to leave the kitchen.

* * *

The third class marks the beginning of a new dance, according to Miss Blanchard’s online schedule. The full course runs 14 weeks, covering seven dances in that time, and today they move on to the foxtrot.

Regina gets to class that Thursday a bit earlier than usual. Her workweek has been lighter than the one before, and things between her and Marian and Kathryn have been a bit on the distant side since they cornered her in Marian’s kitchen.

Still, they are her closest— _only_ —friends, and things will return to the way they were soon enough, just as they always do when either woman tries to push her too far.

The dance room seems a bit fuller than the previous week, though it looks like many of the same people have returned from the waltz. Regina scans the room briefly, and notes—not that she was looking _for_ Emma, exactly—that her partner is not yet present. Which may only mean she hasn’t arrived yet, and as she seems to be rather irresponsible this could easily be the case. Or perhaps she really did fulfill her duty to her roommate by attending the previous lessons, and she will not be returning.

Regina walks across the room to set her things down on the table in the corner, and tries to not acknowledge the smallest twinge of disappointment she feels at that thought. After all, as she’d told her friends, she barely knows the woman. It’s not as though she even has a right to be disappointed, really.  _Because she’s not._

“Excuse me,” a calm voice sounds behind her, and Regina steps to the side as she sets her purse down and reaches for the buttons of her trench coat.

Mulan is standing with her own jacket draped over her arm, and when Regina moves aside she sets it down on an open space beside Regina’s purse. “Of course,” Regina nods politely before falling silent.

Mulan’s own partner does not seem to be present yet either, and as she sets her coat over her purse, she considers the reserved woman beside her. Since the first class Regina had found her maturity—in comparison to the other people in the class, though she seems to be rather young herself—appealing. Perhaps if Emma was no longer in the class she could pair up with Mulan. Surely having another reasonable partner lined up will help ease some of the disappointment she feels.

Mulan turns from the table to face out at the room, and Regina shifts on her heels as she settles beside her. At the front of the room, Miss Blanchard is dancing with David—of course—and giggling loud enough to drift across the room and over the music playing softly. Beside her Mulan’s eyes flicker over their movements, before her eyes flutter as though she’s suppressing the urge to roll them. Regina smirks.

“Quite the fairytale couple,” she murmurs, and she does nothing to hide the derision in her tone. “I wonder just how many birds it takes to dress her in that skirt."

Out of the corner of her eye, Regina can see Mulan’s lips twitch as she tries to suppress a smile. David spins Mary Margaret around with him in a wide turn, and when the slow he dips her back, his elbows up and leg extended out.

Mulan angles her head toward Regina a bit, and says softly, “I’m sure the deer did most of the heavy lifting,” through a barely-visible smile.

It seems Mulan would make a decent partner indeed.

The studio door thuds a bit as it’s thrown open too far, and when they look over in that direction, Regina can see Archie and Marco standing with an older woman—appropriately called Granny—by the entrance.

“Have a nice class,” Mulan offers with a nod before she turns to walk away, and Regina can’t help the renewed discomfort at the fact that she is, once again, potentially partner-less. And perhaps a bit disappointed the obnoxious crash wasn’t signaling her own partner’s arrival.

“Trying to replace me?” she hears behind her, and when she turns to look over her left shoulder Emma is there, sliding her hands into her back pockets. She must have come in when Regina wasn’t looking.

Relief settles over her quickly, but she keeps her face impassive. Crossing her arms over her chest she turns to face Emma fully, and raises a brow. Ignoring the question—and sudden sense of familiarity Regina feels for this woman who is still little more than a stranger—she says, “I was beginning to assume you’d managed to escape Miss Blanchard’s guilt.”

Emma laughs, and Regina is a bit taken by the sound; full and rich and honest, if a bit jaded. “Yeah, that’ll happen.” Shifting between her feet, Emma worries her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment before she says, "She's taken, by the way."

"Excuse me?" Regina asks, arms tightening across her waist.

Shrugging, Emma pops her chin in Mulan's direction. "She's taking these classes to surprise her girlfriend. Well, fiance, soon." Emma's eyes slide back to Regina, and she watches her carefully for a long moment. "You know, just in case you were interested. I've seen you look her way a few times."

Raising a brow, Regina asks, "You have, have you?" When Emma thins her lips and continues to hold her gaze, Regina clears her throat. "I'm here to learn how to do the foxtrot, Miss Swan. Not gossip about our classmates." Regina quirks her brow in challenge before she walks past Emma, toward her usual spot in the room. 

"It's not gossip, you know. She explained why she was taking the class at the diner after the lesson last week," Emma says, taking her place beside Regina. "Why don't you join us this time? You can tell everyone how you're  _not_ a spy."

"What a tempting offer," Regina says dryly.

“We’re going to get started in a few minutes," Mary Margaret announces from the front of the room. "Let's have everyone come to the center of the room.” She turns to the speakers beside her and lowers the volume a bit.

Regina starts to move toward the center as instructed, and Emma follows. “She keeps telling me how nice it is to see me make a _friend_ ,” Emma whispers beside her, and Regina swallows at the way Emma emphasizes the last word. She’s not quite sure how to read Emma’s intonation; as if it’s ridiculous that they would be friends after just two classes, or as if the word is a simplistic description. (And the latter thought truly is ridiculous—they’ve spent _two hours_ together. She blames Marian and Kathryn and _girl talk_ for the idea even entering her thoughts.)

Emma is watching for her response, and because she isn’t quite sure what Emma means, she simply hums, and looks away, toward Mary Margaret making everyone form a circle in what is quickly becoming their routine.

When she begins going over introductions, Regina can’t help but tune her out a bit, her attention still stuck on what Emma had said. Because while they were absolutely _not_ friends—two classes, after all—the idea didn’t feel quite as absurd as it could.

Regina glances at Emma out of the corner of her eye quickly, and she is standing with her hands in her back pockets, shoulders rolled, and hips pressed out a bit in a horrific pose Regina’s seen a dozen times over the past two weeks. She’s awkward and lanky and klutzy when she’s not dancing, and she smiles too brightly at her own jokes. And yet she’s patient and gentle and her presence is oddly comforting for a woman she barely knows.

Emma is _compelling_ in such an unexpected way. Regina is not one to give her time or interest lightly, but there is something about the other woman that she can’t quite shake, even after such brief interaction.

Of course, it’s likely this sudden interest has been stoked by Marian and Kathryn’s unrelenting notion that Regina has some sort of romantic interest in Emma.

She can appreciate that the mere possibility is a novelty for her friends; she was married to Daniel when both Marian and Kathryn started working with her, and she has consistently turned down offers to be set up by both of them since his death.

Not that she’s considering dating anyone now. Even if she could see herself developing romantic feelings for Emma Swan—and that's a rather large _if_ —she’s perfectly content in her life with Henry. And has no interest in putting their recently repaired relationship through any sort of strain, or make him uncomfortable with her moving on from his father.

Mary Margaret clears her throat at the head of the circle, and Regina refocuses on the group, realizing the introductions have stopped at her. She states her name quickly, and the introductions continue to Emma, who is eyeing Regina a bit curiously.

“Today we start with one of my favorites,” Mary Margaret says, once the introductions are finished, “the foxtrot.” She breaks the circle to walk back to the front of the room, and the rest of the class takes it as a cue to spread out.

“If you were here last week, you already know the proper frame.” Before she can even call for him, David steps forward and holds up his arms to help her demonstrate. “Ladies place your left hand on the curve of your partner’s shoulder, and take his with your right.

“And gentlemen, you’re going to place your left hand on your partner’s shoulder blade,” she and David turn so the class can see. “The steps for the foxtrot are going to be two slow steps, followed by two quick steps.” She looks from the class back to David, still holding his position.

“Slow,” she steps backwards as David steps forwards, “slow,” and they move again. “Now to the side we go quick-quick,” and as she says it she takes a step to the side and another quick step to bring her feet together. “So we have slow, slow, quick-quick,” she says as they demonstrate a bit faster.

“Thank you, David,” she smiles, and he steps back into his spot. “Let’s all try it a few times individually. Take two steps forward and then two steps to the side.”

Regina doesn’t start immediately, her eyes moving around the room as she watches the rest of the class follow their instructor. Satisfied the others are occupied with their own steps, she takes two forward and to the side as instructed.

Mary Margaret lets them continue for nearly a full minute before she calls their attention back up. “Wonderful!” she smiles. “Let’s partner up.”

“I’ll lead again?” Emma asks as she steps closer to her.

It seems fair, trading back and forth, and Regina nods, “Alright.” Mary Margaret gestures for them to begin, and Emma steps right up into Regina’s space and slides her hand over Regina’s side to settle against her back.

The touch is tame, just a brush before her fingers curve over her shoulder blade, and then her palm is cupped slightly in a perfectly appropriate way. But Emma tugs a bit at her hand as she grabs it, and Regina steps in until they are closer than they were, and gooseflesh rises just a bit on her skin.

Her arms are bare but for the small cap sleeve on her gray dress, and even in the warm studio she shivers a little. “You know,” Emma starts, and takes a step forward that Regina matches as she looks at her partner with guarded interest. “There’s a bathroom here. You could change before class.”

Regina scoffs, and her shoulders relax a bit. “I’ve seen the hallways of the building; I don’t hold out much hope for the facilities,” she snips, but a small bit of self-doubt kicks in as her skirt pulls a bit around her knees. “Have I not been keeping pace with you?” she raises a brow in challenge.

“I’m just saying, yoga pants might be a bit more comfortable,” Emma takes another step forward, forward, and to the side. “Or, you know, I could ask Mary Margaret to loan you a skirt,” she smirks.

Regina takes a step to the side one beat too soon, and Emma tugs her back before they’re thrown off. “That would be ill-advised.”

"I've seen you eyeing them, too," Emma smiles, and leans her head closer as she spins both of them to change direction—something they haven’t been instructed to do, but feels somehow natural already. “I think she has one in hot pink.”

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Miss Swan,” she narrows her eyes but her lips start to curl up into a smirk of her own.

Emma’s eyes flicker down to watch the movement of her lips, and suddenly she is dipping forward, closer to Regina as she presses a bit more firmly on her back. Regina’s breath catches at the realization that Emma is moving closer, until she stops, noses almost close enough to brush.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not a spy?” she stage whispers, and suddenly she is back to their appropriate distance, leading Regina into step once more.

“Certain,” she says slowly.

“It looks like everyone is getting the hang of the steps, so let’s talk about turns,” Mary Margaret calls from the front of the room. Regina drops her hand from Emma’s, and then begins to lower her hand from Emma’s shoulder, Emma pulling her own arm back to her side after a moment.

“To start let’s try a natural turn.” Mary Margaret gestures for David to assist her, and Regina catches Emma’s face pull in a sort of exasperated amusement, her brow raised and one eyebrow lowered. “Gentlemen, you’re going to start with a step forward, but this time you’re going to step between your partner’s feet a bit.”

David takes a step with his right foot, his thigh brushing Mary Margaret’s as she steps back. “Ladies, you’ll step back, and then both of you move in a half circle,” she demonstrates and it looks like they’re rotating around the others’ legs, “and then take a slow step back, and another.

“So it’s slow,” David steps forward as she steps back, “quick-quick,” as they rotate halfway, “slow, slow,” they take two long steps behind Mary Margaret. “Thank you, David,” she gives him a sweet smile, and even across the room Regina can see her blush. “Try it with your partner, now,” she instructs the class.

“Ready?” Emma asks, and when Regina nods she takes her in her arms again, and Regina’s not certain but she thinks they’re closer than they’ve been.

Emma takes her step forward, and the contact is startling. Really, it’s the fact that it’s not-quite-contact, but she feels it like a jolt up her spine. Because Emma’s thigh has barely brushed hers before she’s stepping back to accommodate her, and yet the smallest bit of heat is rising to her cheeks.

Another small step and Emma is turning them, her palm flattening on Regina’s back as her fingers press a bit harder on the back of her hand with the spinning motion. Once they settle again, Emma steps them back for the last two slow steps of the combination, and they rest for a beat after.

Emma’s eyes meet hers as they pause, and they look a bit heavy, maybe even a bit startled. And it doesn’t make sense for such brief contact—especially when physical contact has been a constant in their relationship—but Regina feels the same.

There was something about that spin that felt oddly comforting. Before, even such a minor spin had felt slightly disorienting, like a headrush after standing up too quickly, perhaps. Yet this time Emma’s palm so warm on her back had been grounding.

“Not bad,” Emma murmurs, and it’s thicker than it should be. Before they can settle for too long, Emma leads them into another step, and another turn. And then they’re dancing, simply but smoothly, and it’s what they’ve been doing for two weeks already, but nowit doesn’t seem as stilted.

They’re beginning to truly move together.

Marian and Kathryn’s teasing springs to mind suddenly, and her back stiffens. Where their playful comments had been a nuisance before, it now feels dangerous. Because—barely three weeks in or not—Regina does feel some connection to this other woman, even if that connection is simply this complementary chemistry that she cannot deny.

And absolutely cannot entertain.

She feels vulnerable, suddenly, and far too exposed. There's been too much talk from everyone around her about dating, and having fun, and  _moving on_ , and her steps quicken out of beat. 

“Hey,” Emma ducks her head a bit to catch Regina’s eye, and furrows her brow. “Are you OK? You seem a bit more tense than usual,” she slows their movements, but doesn’t stop.

Regina does. “Do I?” she asks, and her jaw clenches as she raises one eyebrow. “And you would know this after the two hours we’ve known each other?” Emma’s face registers surprise at her tone. “Despite what Miss Blanchard has said, we are not _friends_.”

The shock fades from Emma’s face and is replaced with something harder, something colder. “Yeah,” she raises her elbow back up from where she’d let it drop with their pause. Restoring her frame she clamps her lips and flattens her palm until it barely rests against her back, all sense of comfort gone from her hold. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

* * *

The rest of the class goes by slowly, dancing with Emma in silence and feeling guilty for how she pushed her away, even if it had to be done.

When Mary Margaret finishes teaching them the feather finish, Emma drops out of Regina’s arms quickly. She barely mutters a ‘ _see ya later’_ before she’s grabbing her jacket and heading out the door.

Regina grabs her own coat as soon as she can reach the back table, and is slipping it on when she hears, “Haven’t seen Emma run out like that outside of a police raid before,” in a thick accent.

“Excuse me?” Regina turns, eyes narrowed at the comment and the presumptuous approach. Behind her is Emma’s friend from that first class, the one she’d rough-housed with when she arrived. Will, she recalls.

Will ignores her question, and gestures with a thumb toward the doors she’d gone through more than a minute ago. “Just mean you must have stepped on her toes quite a bit, or said something pretty awful.”

“And if I did?” Regina asks, voice like ice. “It was a private conversation; between the two of us.”

Holding up his hands, Will’s face opens until he looks like a small boy. “Right you are. Can’t blame me for being curious, though. She’s got a pretty thick skin.” Will stuffs his hands in his pockets, and Regina wonders if there’s any relation between the two of them. “Must have made a hell of an impression.”

Guilt settles low in her stomach again, and Regina finishes buttoning her coat quickly. “Yes, well I’m certain she’ll get over it,” she says before excusing herself and heading out the door. 


	2. and a bottle of rumba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief reference to a racist comment.

Emma comes up to her at the start of the next dance lesson with a casual, "Hey," and when she turns around the other woman is standing there with her hands in her pockets as usual. She doesn't look upset, but her expression is neutral, perhaps a bit guarded.

Slowly, Regina nods. "Hey," she says, and it's mostly surprise (and perhaps _a bit_ of mockery). 

“So, we good to be partners still, or are you afraid someone will mistake us for friends?” Regina’s brows jump at Emma’s bluntness, and her words. “Look,” Emma holds a hand out low, and steps closer so she can talk quietly. “I know a lot of people way more messed up than you, myself included,” she offers a self-deprecating smile. “So I get the whole pushing people away thing, alright?”

She’s waiting for Regina to respond, but she’s a bit speechless in the moment at being called on her behavior. Something that not even Kathryn or Marian have the stomach to do.

“We good?” Emma asks again, and this time Regina clears her throat and nods.

“Fine.”

“Good,” Emma nods sharply, and drops her hand to her side. She’s wearing her usual skinny jeans, but has forgone the flat boots for heeled booties, and the height it puts her a bit taller than Regina. “So, if I let you lead are you gonna talk to me without freaking out?”

In less than a month Emma Swan has managed to pinpoint far,  _far_  too many of the things about herself she doesn’t examine.

But two can play at that game, and gesturing toward the door to the studio, Regina crosses her arms over her chest. “I suppose that depends. If I do, are you going to run again?”

Emma purses her lips to suppress a smile, and slides one hand out of her back pocket. “Truce?” she asks, and Regina takes it slowly.

“Mmm,” Regina hums in confirmation, and tries not to think about how different it feels to take Emma’s hand like this, to hold it for a moment with that as the sole purpose of the contact.

Mary Margaret starts the class, and Regina drops Emma's hand, putting a bit of space between them as they spread out for instructions. She gives a refresher on the foxtrot with David, and Regina does her best to focus, even though she can feel Emma sneaking a few looks her way.

When Mary Margaret directs them to get into their pairs, Regina turns and holds up her arms for Emma to step into her space, and follow. 

It’s a bit shocking, how quickly calling the other out seems to put them on solid ground. In another relationship, Regina could imagine pinpointing a person’s faults would serve to distance people;  _not_  serve to make them more comfortable.

And yet their exchange seems to have done just that. Once Emma settles her hand on Regina’s arm and they begin to move in time with the music, they manage to fall right back into an easy sort of rhythm. Though this time they keep their conversation to a minimum.

The room seems warmer than usual and by the time they complete the feather finish they’ve just learned, Regina’s face is warm from exertion.

“So,” Emma starts as her arms fall to her side, and Regina brushes her hair away from her neck. “Next week is the tango.”

Regina catches her eye as she begins to move toward her things, Emma following silently. “Now, Miss Swan, it hardly seems fair for you to share such secret information just because we’re partners,” she raises a brow in gentle mockery, and picks up her jacket and purse before stepping back from the table.

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’m just  _saying_ , you might want to consider the pants thing. Or a looser skirt.” Before she can respond, Emma pulls her long-sleeved shirt over her head, leaving her in a plain white tank top. And leaving her arms very,  _very_  bare. Regina had noticed that Emma seemed to have a bit of muscle there, could feel it when they danced. But the sight is unexpected, and—she’s loathe to realize—not unpleasant in the least.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she manages to say evenly, and when she looks up to Emma’s face the other woman doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.  _Good_.

“A few of us are going to get a bite down the street again. Any chance you wanna come with this time?” Emma pulls her own messenger bag from the table, and slips it over her head, stuffing her shirt in the main pocket.

Draping her coat over her arm as she puts her purse on her shoulder, Regina raises her brows a bit in surprise. “After last week I’d assumed your invitation had been rescinded for good.”

“Let me be clear,” Emma holds up a hand. “I’m asking you as my  _partner_ , not as a friend,” she teases, and Regina presses her lips together to stop a smile. “And I’m prepared to let everyone know it if they so much as  _look_ at us like we’re anything more than acquaintances.”

She breathes out in exasperation at Emma’s overzealous behavior. “Yes, well as tempting as that offer is,” she pulls her phone out of her purse to check the time, “I really must be going.”

“Is someone giving you hell about our non-existent friendship? Put me on the phone, I’ll set them straight.”

“ _Good night_ , Miss Swan,” she bites out as she heads for the doorway, the sight of Emma’s proud smile lingering in her mind.

* * *

Marian and Kathryn have been blissfully quiet about her dance classes since their ambush in Marian’s kitchen. Their friendship had recovered by the Monday following, both women having stopped by her office with coffee and made one last brief comment—”Whatever makes you happy, Regina,” from Marian while Kathryn had smiled her patient smile—before they’d promptly redirected the conversation to a new client and let the matter drop.

And let it rest for nearly three weeks with little more than acknowledgement of her class to deal with the logistics.

Now it’s the Tuesday before her fifth class—the tango, as Emma had reminded her—and when Marian asks about picking Henry up again, she can’t help but think about the upcoming lesson.

“Yes, thank you,” Regina nods, and lifts her sandwich off of her plate. “This should be his last week of fencing before it’s finished for the school year,” she adds, and takes a bite.

“Don’t remind me,” Marian winces. “Once Roland’s out for the year Robin and I are supposed to take him camping. He’s already counting down the days.”

“I thought you enjoyed camping?” Kathryn asks from her spot, shifting to cross her legs beneath the table.

“I do, but the new hire is nowhere near ready to take my ad campaigns while I’m out which just makes it all a mess.” She breathes out in exasperation, her lips puffing out with the effort. “I’m going to come back to at least five voicemails demanding an update, I just know it.” Marian picks up a spoonful of her soup and lowers her voice as she adds, “And we all know who one of them will be from,” before she takes a bite, trying to hide a smile.

Kathryn covers her mouth a bit to hide her own smile, and looks to Regina. “I think we do,” she teases, and Regina makes a small frown, unamused.

“And I suppose I should take the blame for that?”

“Well you  _were_  the one that stepped on his toes,” Kathryn murmurs into her own food.

“After he stepped on mine, you might recall,” Regina raises a brow, but her cheeks warm a bit at the memory.

“Speaking of,” Marian interjects, “how are the classes going?” Her question is earnest and a bit tentative as though she’s trying to make it clear she doesn’t mean to pry.

Kathryn watches Regina at the question, and Regina nods, setting her sandwich down. “They’re going well. We finished the foxtrot last week.”

“We? As in the class or—” Marian gives Kathryn a hard look, cutting off her question.

“It’s alright. The class, I meant.” Clearing her throat, she picks a carrot stick up, and holds it. “But Emma is still my partner, if that’s what you’ve been wondering.”

“We have,” Kathryn leans forward a little, and Marian does the same, a bit more reluctantly. “And?”

“And that’s still it.” A part of her would like to tell them about Emma coming back after she’d snapped, but it feels oddly private, not to mention the fact that they would likely take it as an admission that she was, in fact, developing some sort of feelings for the other woman. That things were not as  _clinical_  as she had claimed.

“Our next class is the tango,” she offers instead, and Kathryn breaks into a wide grin, joined by Marian a moment later.

“You mean the dance of  _love_?” Marian gets out through a big grin, her soup promptly ignored in favor of the new conversation.

Regina’s eyes flutter in irritation, and she rests her forearms on the table, dropping her carrot back to the plate. “Yes, you’ve caught me; I’m in love with Emma Swan.” Both women laugh, and Regina can’t help but crack a smile in response.

Kathryn leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, love or not, it’s also a dance of  _passion_  and  _control_ ,” her eyes glint mischievously in the soft light of the restaurant.

“You need to stop purchasing grocery store romance novels, dear,” Regina says with a plastic smile.

“I’m just saying, if you’re not interested in anything serious,” Regina narrows her eyes in warning, “then it wouldn’t hurt for you to have some  _fun_.” She lifts her glass of water, and rests one elbow on the table. “Right, Marian?” she asks, looking for backup.

“What are you going to wear?” Marian asks instead.

“Why is there such an obsession with my clothing for this dance? First Emma and now you.” Pushing her plate away from her, she reaches for the check left on the edge of the table during their conversation and murmurs, “It’s as though you’ve all forgotten I’m taking these classes to learn.”

“ _Emma_  has an obsession with your clothes?” Marian smirks.

“She told me to wear pants. Or a looser skirt. It wasn’t a come-on.”

“Uh huh,” Kathryn says, unconvincingly. “You should wear that red dress.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Marian agrees, eyes wide. She stands up from the table and slips her purse over her shoulder. “The chiffon.”

“If Emma doesn’t have a fixation now, that one would do it.” Kathryn stands up and follows Marian toward the door, Regina behind her.

“We’ll be taking separate cabs back to the office,” she says, flatly.

* * *

“So, when I said you should wear pants, I meant something a bit easier to move in,” Emma whispers as Mary Margaret runs over some of the basics.

“My movement will be fine, Miss Swan. Assuming you let me learn the steps,” she hisses back, and runs her hands self-consciously over the brown skinny trousers. She tries to tune back in to what Mary Margaret is demonstrating.

Eyeing Emma out of the corner of her eye, she scoffs, “Besides, if you can manage to bend your knees in those  _leggings_ , I think I can manage.”

Emma laughs before pressing her lips together to quiet herself. “I just mean, sweat pants would be a lot more comfortable, I bet.”

Turning to look at Emma, Regina narrows her eyes. “Have you placed some sort of bet on if you could get me into exercise pants?”

“Emma?” Mary Margaret calls from the front, and the rest of the students turn to look their way. “Do you or Regina have a question?”

Regina’s jaw clenches at being called out, and Emma shifts away from her a bit like she’s been caught. “We’re good,” she holds up a hand as she gives Mary Margaret a bashful smile, and drops her shoulders when the lesson continues.

“You got me into trouble,” Emma says after a moment, leaning over and being sure to keep her voice low.

Indignation flares in Regina’s chest at the blatantly inaccurate description of events, but when she turns her head sharply Emma is smirking as she keeps her eyes focused on the front of the room. Eyes narrowing a bit dangerously as she catches on to Emma’s teasing, Regina clasps her hands in front of her and redoubles her focus on Mary Margaret. 

“So we’re going to go slow, slow, quick-quick, slow,” she explains, David walking her back, back, back, to the side, and back as she speaks. “OK, and now with our partners.”

The class begins to pair up, and Emma steps toward her, taking Regina into her arms with none of the hesitancy of the previous classes. Her movements are sure and smooth, and when Emma’s fingers settle on her shoulder blade she breathes out through her nose, slowly.

Mary Margaret starts the music, and Emma clasps Regina’s hand. “Ready?” she asks, and when Regina nods she takes a step forward, Regina following as she leads them back.

And back, and back. They’re moving swiftly, and for the first time in a month they don’t take these first steps slowly. Instead their steps are sure and so naturally in time from the first that it makes Regina swallow hard, her mouth feeling a bit dry.

Emma’s palm feels hot on her back through her thin silk shell, and when her fingers curl over her shoulder blade to redirect her, she feels the warmth sinking into her skin. When their steps begin to turn them, Regina can feel the muscles beneath Emma’s skin shift and tighten, guiding her as much with her arm as her hand.

They’re closer than they’ve been for the other dances, too; Regina can feel the way their chests almost brush, and their hips start to move in sync.

“Looking great!” Mary Margaret’s high voice cuts over the music, and Regina snaps out of her thoughts with a start. Dropping Emma’s hand, she steps away from her partner to listen, trying not to acknowledge the way her skin still tingles.

“Now for the promenade step,” Mary Margaret begins, “we’re going to be stepping side-by-side with our partner. Gentlemen, you’re going to lead your ladies into this move by turning them with your right hand on their shoulder blade.

“You’ll take two side-by-side steps,” David moves with her, once again at her side to demonstrate. “Then men, you’re going to pivot your partner back to face you, and take a quick step back and to the side, and then a tango close with your feet together.” She turns to face the class, and David moves back to his partner. “Alright, let’s try it.”

Again, Emma steps back into Regina’s space, taking her into her arms and tugging her close. Extending her arm a bit she puts pressure on Regina’s hand as she leads them into the beginning of the promenade step once, twice, and then her fingers are insistent as they put pressure on her back, pivoting her.

Emma’s pressure is firm but not demanding, and Regina can’t help but think of the way Kathryn’s eyes had lit up as she’d told her the dance was about  _control_. It’s a word that echoes in her head as Emma directs her back and to the side, and then starts the steps again.

She leads Regina smoothly, powerfully, and when her foot lands just a bit unsteady on the close, her dress pants aren’t to blame.

“Again?” Emma’s voice is low and rich when she whispers the question in Regina’s ear. She hasn’t realized how close their faces are, that Emma’s cheek is just a breath shy of her own.

“Yes,” she nods in response, her fingers pressing hard into the back of Emma’s hand as she realizes she can smell Emma’s shampoo, they’re so close.

They continue to move together, not even breaking apart when Mary Margaret explains new steps, just pausing in their movement.

And Regina is caught in a slew of half-formed thoughts and concerns, floating in until Emma tugs her closer and pivots her. Emma's ankle brushes against Regina's, catching it playfully as her hand drifts from Regina's shoulder to the center of her back.

 _This isn’t what she’s here for_ , Regina tries to remind herself, even as she gets caught up in the rhythm, in the feel of Emma all around her. Because Emma is so surprisingly, unexpectedly comforting and challenging all at once.

She’s her  _partner_  and feels like her partner in a way Regina hasn’t experienced since Daniel. And it’s such a heavy, unwelcome thought. What’s developing between them is physical on the surface—they’ve barely had a half-dozen conversations—but there’s a dangerous feeling of  _potential_ in their interactions.

“Should I even bother inviting you out after class?” Emma murmurs, the time on the wall clock nearly showing 8. They’re still dancing, though, Emma’s hand still clasped tight around hers.

Regina swallows, and tries not to think about her meddling friends encouraging her to have fun, to be happy. She is already, as much as she thinks she can be, with her son that has finally returned to her and her friends that push but don’t push too hard when it matters.

That rich sense of  _potential_  is what spooks her. Because even if she was  _perhaps_  starting to consider the sort of physical fun Kathryn has been urging—and the heat racing up Regina’s spine and the way Emma’s sure steps had left her growing slick between her thighs says that she is—she can’t. Because she has a growing suspicion that  _fun_ might become something more, something deeper. And she still doesn't know how her son would react to her dating. She can’t—won’t—risk her relationship with Henry. 

“No,” Regina murmurs, and she can feel Emma laugh against her temple.

“As partners, remember? To preserve that whole ice queen thing you seem to prefer.”

Regina bites back a smirk, before licking her lips and pulling back. Once they’ve stopped dancing, she meets Emma’s eyes and says evenly, shoulders squared, “I have a teenage son at home.”

“Oh,” Emma replies, surprise plain on her face. They’re still in their dance frame, hands clasped together, and she can feel when Emma flexes her hand.

“Oh?”  Regina prompts.

Shrugging, Emma takes a step forward, restarting their dance. “I’m just surprised, is all. You don’t seem old enough to have a kid, let alone a teenager.”

Brow raised, Regina tilts her head back to look at Emma. “And I suppose you intended that as a compliment?”

“Guess it wasn’t a very good one,” she smiles. They continue to dance, finishing out a combination before Emma’s eyes fall to the floor and she asks—in what Regina assumes to be an attempt at nonchalance—“So does your partner not like to dance? ‘Cause most people that aren’t single come here with someone else.”

“I don’t believe I said I wasn’t single,” she says carefully, and watches as Emma’s gaze meets hers again. Emma doesn’t push at that, though Regina hasn’t exactly answered the unasked question. But Daniel’s ring burns hot against her sternum, tucked under her shirt, and she has no interest in baring herself further to this woman who is neither her friend nor anything else that would qualify for personal information _._ Or, perhaps Emma will think she's not available and quash that dangerous potential before it grows. _  
_

Nodding sharply, Emma tugs her closer again, until they are back where they’d been, with Emma’s cheek almost brushing hers. “Guess you didn’t,” Emma whispers, and her breath ghosts over Regina’s ear.

Perhaps not.

* * *

Regina barely makes it through the second tango class. For as close as they’d been the first time, Regina thinks they’re somehow closer now. And, quite frankly, she’s not sure she means solely in a physical sense.

Emma is following this time, her hand resting on Regina’s shoulder and her fingers wrapped around Regina’s hand. Her shoulder blade feels sharp beneath Regina’s palm and when her fingers ghost over the dip of her back—turnabout’s fair play, after all—she thinks she can feel the notches of Emma’s spine. For all of Emma’s lean muscle and length, she does somehow feel small against Regina as they dance.

In addition, it’s another hour of being pressed against one another—of Emma’s breath on her skin and her smell in her senses and her slightly-rough-when-she’s-whispering voice in her ear.

And it somehow feels even deeper, now that Emma knows about Henry, knows she’s a mother. A fact that can usually deter those looking for a more stringless sort of fun. Not that Emma has indicated she is, exactly. There’s been flirting between them for weeks, but Emma hasn’t made any sort of intentions known, which is probably for the best.

“Your kid could come, too, you know,” Emma offers as they pick up their things following the class.

“He’s thirteen, and it’s a school night,” Regina raises her brow, pushing her hair away from her neck and trying not to shiver when she thinks of Emma’s fingers brushing against her skin.

“He could be sick tomorrow,” Emma grins obnoxiously, and Regina rolls her eyes.

“I’m not going to let him skip school to take him out to a run-down diner with a bunch of strangers. Besides, he’s already had dinner,” she slides her purse onto her shoulder and stands in front of Emma.

“What about a milkshake?” Emma teases, but relents at Regina’s expression. “I guess you’re one of those responsible moms,” she gives an exaggerated sigh, but if Regina’s not mistaken there’s a bit of a frown on her lips when she says it. “He uh, he cooks? ‘Cause I sure as hell couldn’t at his age.”

“He’s at my friend’s house.” Emma’s watching her carefully, and she begins to grow a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “And I should be picking him up soon.”

“Yeah, OK,” Emma bobs her head and slips her hands into her back pockets. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Of course, dear.”

* * *

“You know, Marian and Robin said I can stay over whenever I want,” Henry says from his spot in the passenger seat.

Looking over at her son, Regina smiles. “That was kind of them.”

“Yeah.” She can feel Henry’s eyes on her, watching her closely.

Music plays softly from the radio, filling the car, but Henry’s focus is making her a bit nervous. At a stoplight, she settles her foot on the brake and looks over at him. “Henry?” she prompts.

“I just thought you should know. Like if you ever wanna go out after your dance class with your friends.” At Regina’s confused expression, he shrugs. “I heard you telling Marian that your partner keeps asking you to join them.

“And,” he shifts in his seat like he doesn’t enjoy having a serious conversation with his mother. Which, to be fair, he likely doesn’t. “You know you don’t have to be with me all the time, right?”

The hurt stings sharply, before settling in her chest like a weight. “Oh,” she says, and is grateful when the light changes so she can look away from her little boy. “Alright, Henry,” she concedes, and hopes he can’t hear the way her voice wavers just a bit at the rejection.

“Mom,” he breathes out, “that’s not what I mean. I don’t  _want_  you to leave me alone.” Regina glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and his head is downcast, his eyes on his hands in his lap. “I know that it hurt you when I  _ran away_ ,” he says carefully. It’s a simplistic description of what he’d done—running away after finding out he'd been adopted had just been the start of him hating and distrusting her for two years—but she knows what he means. “I just mean, if you want to do other things sometimes, you won’t lose me, OK?”

They’re still blocks away from their house, but Regina’s hands begin to shake a bit on the steering wheel. She turns down a side street and pulls over, and as soon as she has the car in park she turns to face her brave little boy. “I know, Henry,” she says softly, and her smile is watery when she reaches across the console to cup his cheeks.

The truth is, she doesn’t know, not really. Henry can't really know, either, but she appreciates the sentiment deeply. 

And, truth be told, even if neither of them can know that things will stay the same between them—that they won't break again—she realizes how badly she needed to hear him say that it will. Smiling softly, she whispers, “Thank you, my little prince,” before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

* * *

For a few days, she’s allowed to think the worst is over, now that the class will be moving on from the tango. But when she checks the class schedule, the next lesson listed is the rumba, and bit of googling is enough to set her right back on edge.

“So this morning I got stuck in a bit of a YouTube loop,” Kathryn says, walking through her office door with her phone in her hand.

Not looking up from her laptop, Regina murmurs, “A wonderful use of billable hours, to be sure.”

Ignoring her, Kathryn continues, and pulls out the chair in front of Regina’s desk. “Have you watched any of the rumba videos on there?”

At that Regina does glance up, and slips her glasses off of her nose. Clearly, telling Kathryn about the lesson topic was a mistake. “I can’t say that I have,” she says carefully.

With a wolfish grin, she hits the play button in the center of the screen and holds up the phone for her to see. “You do realize this is a beginner lesson,” she says slowly, eyes not moving off of the video, as the dancers—well,  _grind_  is the only word that comes to mind.

“Oh, they’re not any better,” Kathryn raises a brow, before pulling the phone back.

Regina clears her throat, the thought of Emma pressed behind her tightly, hands on her hips as they  _gyrate_ like a couple of teenagers both off-putting and very,  _very_ enticing. “Yes, well you haven’t met our instructor,” she settles on, and puts her glasses back on her nose. “She’s essentially a schoolmarm. I doubt our steps will be anything like that.”

“Well I  _could_ meet her if Frederick and I—”

“Don’t even think about signing up for this class until I’m finished.” She levels Kathryn with a warning look. “It’s bad enough you know that I need lessons, I don’t need you to witness the humiliation.”

Kathryn offers her a gentle smile, and sets her phone down in her lap, the video over. “For the record, you’re a wonderful dancer and you didn’t need to take lessons.” Standing, she pushes the chair back into its place. “But since you are, and since Thursday is,” she gestures to her phone, “you should wear the red dress.”

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Regina ignores the advice, and Kathryn begins to head toward the door, smiling. “If you don’t get fired before then for abuse of company resources.”

* * *

While the lesson topic had been enough to set her on edge, Kathryn’s video sharing had done an effective job of pushing her over. She’s always been a bit of an over-researcher, but once she starts to watch a few clips on YouTube she—as Kathryn had put it—falls into the YouTube loop.

By the start of class on Thursday, she’s not sure if she’s excited for, or terrified of, what’s to come.

As she’s taking off the blazer she’d worn over her blue dress, she hears her cell phone beep with a new message.  **Red dress??** is the short message from Kathryn. Pursing her lips a bit at her friend’s persistence, she sends a short  **You saw me today.** before setting her purse down on the table and draping her jacket beside it.

Her phone beeps again, and when she opens it there’s a crying emoji. And then a second text comes with the same. Followed by a third text that reads:  **(The second is Marian.)**

Before she can respond, she hears a familiar, “Hey,” beside her. Sliding her phone into the pocket of her purse, Regina turns to face Emma, and can’t stop her eyes from scanning her length when she sees her.

“Hello,” she manages to husk out, and she hopes it sounds more mocking than awed. “That’s quite a far cry from the jeans you’re usually wearing,” she comments on the dark pink— _skin tight_ —dress Emma wears.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, and runs her hands over her thighs to smooth out the material. Her hair is curled more than usual, and when she looks down thick strands slip over her shoulders. “I had to come here from work,” she explains.

Regina’s brows creep up. “Really,” Regina murmurs. Because the dress is form-fitting and a bit revealing, and Regina can only imagine what kind of career would force her to wear such an outfit.

“I’m a bailbondsperson,” Emma smirks, and drops a slightly greasy bag on the table before reaching in. “Sometimes it’s fastest to trick bail jumpers with a fake date. Donut?” she pulls one out of the bag and offers it to Regina.

“No thank you, dear. And yet I seemed like the spy to you? I believe you’re describing a honeypot.” Emma smirks at the term around a mouthful of donut, and Regina clears her throat a bit as the word  _charming_  springs to mind so inappropriately. There is powdered sugar falling to the neckline of Emma’s dress, and Regina glances at it before she shifts on her feet. “How old was this date that he took you to a donut shop?”

Mary Margaret calls them to circle up, and Emma scarfs down the last of her food as they move to stand in their spots. Brushing her hands together before running them over the front of her dress and getting rid of the powder there, Emma smiles obnoxiously. “How do you know I didn’t pick the place?”

Before they can continue the conversation, Mary Margaret starts the class, giving a bit of history of the rumba and then having David demonstrate with her.

And—schoolmarm or not—the choreography is every bit as intimate as the videos she’d watched online.

Regina’s pretty sure she manages to keep a straight face—she has the mask of indifference perfected, after all—even as she swallows hard, all too conscious of Emma beside her.  _Close_  beside her _._ Close enough that she can feel her heat, and when she looks around she sees the rest of the room spaced in a much more reasonable distance.

Mary Margaret has them space out and go through the steps individually first—slow to the right, quick forward, quick back, slow to the left, quick forward quick back—and Regina is all too conscious of how her hips roll with the movement.

“OK, let’s try in our pairs,” Mary Margaret announces, and it feels like she’s barely finished speaking before Emma’s clasping her hands and tugging Regina into her space.

They’re doing a different hold this time, Emma’s hands are in each of her own—no shoulder, no back—and only at waist height. Emma’s grip is firm but gentle, and when she takes her first step forward, Regina’s eyes meet hers as she steps back to match the movement.

Where their tango the previous weeks had felt natural, this feels  _personal_. There’s less physical contact between them, but with the distance Regina finds herself watching Emma’s face more, catching the way her eyes dip down to her lips, to her chest, to her hips, and back.

They continue the simple steps for a minute, maybe two, maybe five, before Emma lets go of one hand and spins her once before she holds her again. Mary Margaret hasn’t taught this part yet, the spins, or the New Yorker that Emma leads her into before she pivots them and turns Regina out until they’re side-by-side and Emma’s hand is burning hot on her back.

She presses lightly, guiding Regina to take a step forward before she brings her back to their original position, hand in hand. Regina’s eyes meet Emma’s and they seem darker than usual. Regina can’t look away and break their contact, she realizes, almost desperately. There is something almost urgent in the way Emma is looking at her, and her breath starts to come just a bit faster at the realization.

Emma’s eyes drop to her lips again and then she’s spinning Regina around, and they’re pressed front-to-back. Emma’s breasts are tight against her as her hips continue the figure-8 pattern with the basic steps, falling into sync with one another.

And  _oh_ , there is nothing juvenile about this. Logically, yes, she’s knows that they are—still lacking a better term— _grinding_. But the hard press of Emma’s hips against hers, the way her hands are wrapped around Regina’s, the way Emma’s breath ruffles her hair—it feels like so much more.

She knows now, without a doubt, that Emma is interested in her, too.

It’s a long, slow moment of them wrapped in each other in every sense of the phrase, and then Emma steps back and away, and Regina’s back stiffens with the absence as the music ends.

Regina feels a little breathless, heat settling low in her belly as she licks her lips and turns to face Emma, only then noticing the rest of the class. And the fact that they’ve all stopped their own choreography to watch them—Mary Margaret included.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret breathes out, and she’s smiling like a proud parent. “That was wonderful. Both of you,” she adds, looking to Regina with an unusual sense of awe.

Regina drops Emma’s hands, and stands up straighter, uncomfortable under so many watchful eyes. “I apologize for the disruption, please continue,” she says coolly, as if she hadn’t just lost herself in a moment with Emma a few seconds before. “I’m going to step out for a moment,” she says lower, and steps through the double doors and into the hallway.

Once the metal click signals that the door has shut she breathes out a harsh breath, the sound a little jagged in the quiet, the muted sounds from the studio behind her the only other noise. She pushes her hair back from her face and shuts her eyes for a moment.

Whatever just happened with Emma was— _is_ —a mistake. This isn’t what she came here for, she reminds herself  _again_ , and it certainly isn’t a fantasy she can indulge. Even if she isn’t quite sure what that fantasy  _is_. She just knows that it’s dangerous, that it involves the potential for major disruption to her life.

And, perhaps, a vulnerability she never wants to experience again.

The doors open, and she knows that it’s Emma even before the  _hey_  she whispers. Dropping her hands from her face, she opens her eyes but doesn’t turn around. “Emma,” she begins, and she’s almost certain her eyes are red-rimmed from stress in this moment.

“Do you wanna blow off the rest of class?”

Regina’s back straightens, and now she does look over her shoulder a little, confused. “Excuse me?”

Emma’s arms are at her sides but her fingers are flexing like she’s out of her depth in this moment. “We obviously have this one covered, right? We could go somewhere else,” she kind of trails off, and Regina grits her teeth.

Because the temptation to leave with Emma is achingly strong. There is a large part of her that would love to listen to Marian and Kathryn, and let her indulge the chemistry between them.

And after that rumba she knows it would be  _so, so good_.

But that hideous word  _potential_  still lingers over them—in the way that she thinks about Emma’s touch and voice and smell of course, but her laugh and brashness and ability to see right through her, too.

Finally she shakes her head, her voice thick as she says, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

Emma takes a few steps closer to her, her shadow long in the dim hallway, and settles her hands into fists at her sides. “Look, you’re doing this to impress some clients, right?” Regina narrows her eyes, unsure where Emma is going with this. “If you’re trying to  _woo_  them,” she says pointedly, “they you’re going to be far more successful if you look like you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

“Please make your point, Miss Swan.”

“I think you need some real-world experience where we can do what we just did in there,” she gestures with her thumb to the door behind her, “without a dozen people staring at us.”

It’s a dangerous concession, to agree to Emma’s point, even if it’s valid. Clenching her jaw in deliberation, Regina narrows her eyes as she looks at Emma. “I need to get home to my son,” she says instead, ignoring Emma’s argument for the moment.

“Saturday, then,” she fires back, and smiles in a way that reminds Regina far too much of a golden retriever.

Slowly, Regina drops her arms and flexes her right wrist. There are so many reasons for her to say no, to protect herself and her life and say no to whatever this possibility is between them. It's the logical, responsible thing to do. 

"There's a small club close to here, pretty low key."

"Ballroom?" Regina asks skeptically, not that she's actually considering Emma's suggestion. 

Emma shrugs. "Salsa, ballroom. It's kind of a free-for-all."

"How appealing," Regina says dryly. The ballroom classes are enough to give her a comfortable foundation for future work events. It's why she'd signed up in the first place, and what she'll do to continue to learn. She doesn't need outside practice, even if it would be nice to have a dance floor a bit more accommodating. As well as a break from the fluorescent lighting and wall-wide dance mirror. And, perhaps, there was something to Emma's suggestion of dancing without an audience, especially after their display; she was already dreading going back into the room.

"Look, think of it like—like a field trip."

Regina can't help the scoff as she repeats, " _Field trip_?"

"Yeah," Emma takes a step closer, and the dimming hallway light casts a shadow over her face as she moves. "A field trip. To get you out in the right environment. You know, without Mary Margaret whispering how wonderfully we're doing every five minutes." 

Regina purses her lips at the last comment, and Emma breathes out a small laugh to break the silence that falls between them. But she doesn't say anything more, doesn't push her further; she just stands there, waiting, with a sheepish smile on her face.

And despite all of that logic that tells Regina this isn't a good idea, she finds herself saying, "Alright," with a small nod of her head. "Assuming I can make arrangements for my son to stay with a friend."

"Of course," Emma bobs her head, and she smiles a bit softer. "So, uh, I guess we should get back in there?"

"I suppose so," Regina agrees, and takes slow steps toward the door. She can feel Emma fall into step behind her as they near, and when she pulls the door open she's positive Emma's hand glances her lower back for a brief moment.

* * *

“Henry, are you certain you’re alright with this?” she asks, brows furrowed as she parks in front of Marian’s house.

“I meant what I said, Mom,” he smiles sweetly, and she is nothing but mixed feelings on her child growing up; she’d love nothing more than to keep him her baby forever, but she’s more and more delighted to meet the man he’s becoming. “You deserve to have fun with your friends.”

She feels her face warm at the simple word and the memory of Kathryn urging her to a very specific sort of  _fun_ , and she gives Henry a weak smile. Then, bigger as she runs her hand over his hair gently. “You’re my friend.”

Henry laughs. “Yeah, and that’s kind of sad.” Before Regina can’t respond he opens his door and steps out, swinging his backpack over his shoulder before he leans back down into the door frame. “Have fun,” he smiles.

“I love you,” she says before he can turn toward the house.

“Yeah,” he nods, “I know. I love you too, Mom,” and then he’s slamming the car door and walking up toward Marian’s door.

Regina watches to make sure he gets inside, but before he can knock the door opens, and Marian reaches out to squeeze his shoulder before she starts toward her car.

Sighing, Regina starts to roll the passenger window down as she approaches, and when she’s close enough she leans on the frame as she ducks her head into the car. “So,” she trails off, a knowing grin plastered on her face.

“Thank you for watching Henry tonight.”

“Uh huh,” she continues smiling.

“I’ll let you know what time I’ll be back.”

“Uh huh.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Kathryn, dear.”

Ignoring the jab, Marian offers, “He’s welcome to spend the night.”

“Yes, he told me you offered that a few weeks ago.” Eyebrows rising in warning, she gestures to the house when Henry is now. “Must I remind you that he’s thirteen now, and likely old enough to pick up on what you’re implying? You will not use my son in your childish teasing,” she huffs, but her heart isn’t in it.

Truthfully, she’s too nervous by the change in topic to really lay into Marian.

“What are you wearing?” Marian asks, and pulls her phone up to take a picture of Regina, despite the trench coat she’s wearing that covers her clothes completely.

“Marian,” she clucks her tongue. “Your husband is right inside.”

“Regina,” Marian starts, letting her phone dip as she rests her arms down. “Are you wearing the red dress?”

“Please don’t let Henry sit on his video game all night, his eyes need to rest,” she changes the subject, and starts to roll the window up, making Marian jerk back out of the car.

“Regina!” Marian shouts as the window nears the top of the car door, and Regina smirks as she eases the car forward smoothly, resisting the strong urge to screech away.

* * *

They’ve agreed—via text, per Emma’s suggestion at the end of the last class—to meet in the parking lot at the studio, on Saturday.  _After all_ , Regina had written,  _this is not a date_  when Emma had offered to pick her up.

Regina pulls into the nearly empty lot just before 8, and Emma is already there, leaning against the front bumper of a  _hideously yellow_  Volkswagen beetle.

And wearing a decidedly less hideous white silk dress. It’s knee-length, and the sleeves hit mid-forearm, the neckline shooting straight across her collarbone in a tight line. Emma’s hair is pulled back into a stylish ponytail, tendrils framing her face, and she stands up straighter when Regina pulls up beside her.

Cutting the gas, Regina parks and unties the belt of her jacket, the night air warm enough to leave it there and not deal with it wherever they’ll be headed. Shrugging out of it, she opens her car door and stands up slowly, before picking up her clutch and closing the door a bit as Emma watches her. “You’re rather dressed up for a field trip, Miss Swan,” she raises a brow, and Emma takes a few steps to meet her.

Her eyes drop from Regina’s face to the red chiffon dress she wears, lingering for a moment too long on the deep cut of the V between her breasts. The dress isn’t exactly inappropriate—with the right blazer she could even wear it to work, in theory—but her arms are bare and the skirt only falls to mid thigh. A thin white belt accents the curve of her waist, and her hand falls to rest there as Emma meets her eyes again.

“I guess the same could be said for you,” Emma tosses back, and Regina gestures to the passenger seat of her Benz.

“Shall we?”

“You don’t know where we’re going,” Emma points out. “I’ll drive,” she tosses over her shoulder, and when she turns Regina sees the deep cut of the dress, and where it finally comes to a close just above her lower back.

Her argument dies on her lips, and she turns to lock the car door before walking over to the bug. Emma’s standing on the passenger side, door open, and Regina murmurs, “Thank you,” as she settles inside.

Emma rounds the front of the car as Regina pulls her door shut, and once Emma is inside she starts up the car. It struggles for a moment, and Regina struggles to stem her comment.

“It’s not too late for me to drive, dear,” slips out anyway, but Emma just ignores her, and starts to pull out of the lot. It’s silent in the car, and Regina looks out of her window to see the city lights bright against the already-dark sky. “Have you been to this club before?” Regina finally asks, and Emma looks over at her before refocusing on the road.

She shrugs, and says, “Once or twice. Mary Margaret took me there the first time. Don't worry," she adds, and smirks as she looks over at Regina for a moment. "She won't be there tonight."

"Small blessings," Regina murmurs, and then silence settles between them until Emma turns on the radio. It’s low, on some Top 40 station, and her feet start tapping lightly on the floor. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye she looks over at Emma, who has a small smile on her face. “What?” Regina asks, shifting her knees together a little self-consciously.

“Nothing,” Emma says, but her smile grows and her eyes dart down to Regina’s feet before she refocuses on the road.

There is a line outside of the club as they pull up, but it’s short and moving quickly, so Regina imagines Emma’s right that it won’t be overcrowded. She hasn’t gone out somewhere like this in years, always managing some excuse—generally Henry—when Marian and Kathryn try to drag her out.

“ _The Poison Apple_ ,” she reads the name of the club with distaste, a neon apple dripping with green in place of the O.

“We’re already here,” Emma defends, and pulls into one of the street spots just a block up from the doors. Shutting the car off, she opens her door, and slips her car key into a pocket of her dress before closing it. Regina steps out of the car on her side, and shuts hers, too.  _Carefully._

“A miracle the door didn’t fall off as it shut,” she murmurs, loud enough that Emma can hear as she comes to Regina’s side.

“Hilarious,” Emma says dryly, and waits for Regina to fall into step with her as they walk down the sidewalk and into the club.

It’s not as trendy as it looked from the outside, Regina realizes with relief, and the dance floor has several couples salsaing in the space. She starts to move toward the floor, but Emma’s fingers hook around her elbow. “Whoa,” she tilts her head toward the bar on the other side, and says, “let’s get a drink, first.”

“I thought this was a  _field trip_ , Miss Swan,” she quirks a brow in challenge, but Emma doesn’t drop her arm.

“Yeah, but an adult field trip,” she tugs a bit, not enough pressure to feel demanding, and Regina starts to follow her to the bar. “And you can knock it off with the ‘Miss Swan’ stuff any time, you know. We’ve been partners for over a month.”

“Mmm,” Regina murmurs but doesn’t commit, and slips onto a stool by the bar, waiting for Emma to do the same.

“So, tell me about yourself, I guess,” Emma says as she takes her seat, nodding to the bartender that catches her eye.

Regina breathes out a harsh laugh. “My, how successful you must be with those honeypots,” she flips her hair over her shoulder and sets her forearms on the bar.

“Whoa, again,” Emma holds up a hand, her eyes wide with offence. “This,” she gestures between them, “is not me seducing you, OK. Let’s make that clear, because my A game,” she lets out a low whistle, and Regina quirks a brow.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks as he slides down to their end of the counter.

“I’ll have a McCutcheon neat,” Emma looks over to Regina. “You?”

“And I’ll have the same,” she nods to the bartender. He turns to pour their drinks, and Regina can feel Emma’s eyes on her as they wait. “What?” she finally asks.

But the bartender returns, and Emma tells him to open a tab before he heads to another customer. “Here,” Emma slides Regina one of the glasses over to Regina and holds hers up. “To our partnership,” she shrugs, and Regina sighs before reluctantly tapping her glass to Emma’s.

“Our partnership,” she agrees, and watches Emma as she takes a drink, the whiskey burning on its way down. Emma doesn’t continue what she was saying, nor does she answer Regina’s question. It’s a bad idea to prompt her, she knows, and yet she runs her finger over the rim of her glass as she says, “You were saying about your A game, dear?”

Emma smirks at her and Regina turns her head to meet her eyes. “Are you asking for a demonstration?”

“Hardly,” Regina scoffs, and takes another sip of her drink. Setting the glass down, she looks over to Emma again. “How does someone end up a bailbondsperson? It doesn’t exactly scream career day.”

“Yeah, you kind of fall into it. I had a buddy a few years back, turned me on to the job.” Emma shrugs, and holds onto her glass with a tighter grip. “It just kind of stuck, I guess.” Eyeing Regina for a moment, she looks down at her drink and adds, “Besides, prospects aren’t great for a highschool-dropout-ex-con,” before taking another sip. When she sets the glass down, she looks over at Regina steadily, like she's gauging her reaction.

Curious—if a bit thrown by the change in conversation—Regina prompts, "Yes, your friend mentioned that you made it a habit of running away from the police."

"Will?" Emma asks, brows raised. At Regina's nod, she shrugs. "Yeah, I was young and stupid. But I only had to get caught by a cop once before that life kind of lost its appeal."

"And now you're a bailbondsperson." Emma nods down at her glass, her fingers tracing the curve of the cup. "The other side of the law, I suppose."

Emma laughs. "Still a hell of a lot of running, though." 

Regina can't help but look Emma over. “Well, I suppose that would explain the muscles,” she says evenly, even as her body heats at the memory of Emma’s arm beneath her hand.

“Yeah?” Emma looks up, and Regina can feel the way her back grows less tense. “You should see my abs,” she smirks, and it's disgustingly charming.

Pursing her lips, Regina pushes the thought of her charm back. “And I see we have the ‘A game’. However could I resist,” she deadpans.

Emma opens her mouth like she’s going to respond, but after a moment she closes it, and the flirtatious smile she’s been wearing softens. “OK, so, you’re a mother, you work at business consulting firm—whatever that entails—and you’ve got a thing for my arms.” Regina can’t help the low laugh she gives at that. “That's not a lot to know about a person after more than a month," Emma says, prompting her to answer the question from earlier.

“I'm afraid I don't see the problem, Miss Swan. After all, this is a  _field trip_ , not a date, if you’ll recall.”

Emma turns on her stool a bit until she’s facing Regina, her eyes dropping down to the length of Regina’s thigh, quite exposed by the high cut of the skirt. “My mistake,” she says simply, but the words are physical, a caress over bare skin.

Emma leans more weight on her forearm and she licks her lips, but her eyes grow softer, not darker. “What’s your son’s name?”

Regina considers not answering. But the motherly pride part of her is too strong, and so she finds herself smiling wide as she says, “Henry.”

“That’s a good name,” she nods, and there is nothing calculated or seductive about the way she’s looking at Regina now. “He a good kid?”

“Yes,” Regina answers automatically, not a doubt in her mind even after the mess they’d gone through. Emma's still watching her, as if waiting for her to continue. Unable to ignore the opportunity, she adds, “He’s incredible; bright, creative, caring. And brave." Her smile is wide enough to make her skin ache with the pull, but she can't help herself. "He pushes himself constantly. Henry's always been a bit of a bookworm, but this year he's been taking fencing classes after school."

"Yeah?" Emma smirks. "Sounds like an awesome kid, Regina."

"He is," she nods. She hesitates for a moment, and then: "He even encouraged me to come out tonight. He wants me to have fun with my friends.” She says the last word pointedly. 

“Well, he’ll have to be disappointed, then, ‘cause I only see a dance partner, right here,” Emma crosses her legs, and rests her chin on her hand, disrupting her smirk. Face growing more serious, she tilts her head a bit. “That’s pretty amazing, though. You must be a hell of a mom, Regina.”

Tears sting behind her eyes suddenly at the comment, one she wants to badly to deserve, but questions every day. She loves her son more than anything in the world, but the two years they’d spent in and out of therapy—and the cold shoulders and  _I hate you_ s and  _You’re not my real mom_ s that had cut like knives—make her doubt that her love is enough.

“I love him more than anything,” is all she can offer, before she takes a long drink to finish her glass.

“He’s a lucky kid, then.” Emma isn’t looking at her, just trailing fingers over her glass, and the comment doesn’t feel flirtatious, or romantic; it feels sad. Regina turns her head to watch Emma. She's slouching, her back in that terrible shrug she seems to wear constantly. Emma seems quieter in this moment than she has in weeks, even with the heavy beat of the music all around them.

"Is he?" she asks, not quite sure how to respond. What Emma's not saying is loud, far too loud for this early in the night, and this soon into their relationship, whatever it may be. 

"I've been an orphan my whole life, so I just mean, love is pretty much the jackpot, right?" Emma gives a tight-lipped smile. "What more is there to ask for?" she asks rhetorically, and finishes off her glass, too.

Emma gestures to the bartender for refills, and Regina leans forward, rolling her shoulders. Emma's admission is heavy, and she runs her tongue over her teeth as they sit in silence for a moment. She can feel Emma looking over at her out of the corner of her eye, and her skin begins to heat as she considers her next words. “So," she starts, "you've told me you're a high school-dropout-ex-con-orphan." Emma's jaw clenches a bit at the description. "My, my," she breathes, lips curling into a smile, "Your A game pitch is unique, I must say."

Emma breathes out a laugh, and quirks a brow. "Disarming, right?" she teases, but her eyes search Regina's for a moment.  _It is_ , Regina realizes, and her chest is rising with each breath as she holds Emma's gaze.

The bartender sets their drinks down, and Regina catches her bottom lip between her teeth briefly, before she clears her throat, the moment gone. "So, how on earth did you end up rooming with Miss Blanchard?”

“Fate, I guess,” she laughs. “I was at a laundromat shortly after I got into to town, looking in the newspaper for a place. Mary Margaret lived nearby, and her apartment complex was having work done in their laundry room, so she had to use the one I was at. And it was weird, she saw me looking at ads, and it just kind of fell into place.”

“You took a room with a complete stranger that approached you in a  _laundromat_?”

“Crazy, right?” Emma laughs self-deprecatingly, and gestures for the bartender again. “I’ve lived worse places. I move around a lot, and I’m not crazy about signing long leases. Or leases in general.” Emma shrugs, “Harder to pick up and make a fresh start.”

Regina glances up at Emma, watching her as she stares ahead. Her words are concerning, her desire to be rootless, to not be tied down. To be ready to leave tomorrow.

“I don’t know, it worked out, I guess,” Emma adds.

Regina’s stuck on her words, her desire for escape. But what being stuck  _means_  is unpleasant, and settles like acid in her stomach. Shaking her hair back over her shoulders, she says, “Save for the fact that she forces you to go to her classes.”

“There is that,” Emma nods once. “But look, we’re out now, so that’ll earn me some not-a-slouch points.” The bartender settles in front of them again, and Emma holds up two fingers. “Tequila.”

Regina eyes the bartender as he pours, before looking back to Emma. “For reference, when I’m wooing these clients of mine, I will likely be required to be at least relatively sober.”

“Doesn't mean you have to be now,” Emma grins, and slides one of the shots to her once the bartender sets them down. “Drink, and then we’ll go do what we came here for.”

“Wonderful,” she murmurs into her shot glass, before tipping it back.

Emma does the same, and once she sets the empty glass down she slips from the stool to stand beside Regina. "C'mon," Emma taps her forearm gently. Picking up Regina's purse she hands it to the bartender to be put behind the counter, and then starts to walk toward the center of the club. “Have you ever been salsa dancing?” Emma asks over her shoulder when Regina follows, yelling a bit to be heard over the loud music as they pass a speaker on the way to the dance floor.

“Not specifically, no,” Regina answers once they slow, and Emma turns to face her. “But I’m familiar with the dance,” she says, as Emma slides a hand over her waist and pulls her closer in a way that’s becoming so familiar.

"Perfect," Emma says softly, and takes Regina’s hand with her free one before she leads them into step.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into the rhythm here, picking up where they’d left off at class on Thursday, and the week before, and the week before. They’re so in tune these days, their feet moving in sync and their hips fitting together when Emma steps in close before she dips Regina back the smallest bit.

Her hair falls back over her shoulders and down, and when Emma pulls her back up she shakes it away from her face as Emma spins her quickly.

And again, and again, before she pulls Regina back to her, and her hand falls to the center of her lower back. The pressure there is so unexpectedly heavy, even with Emma’s thin fingers and soft skin.

“I gotta say,” Emma starts, and spins her again before tugging her back, “I’m not entirely sure why you’re taking these classes.”

Regina quirks a brow, and when Emma’s hands slide from her back to take a hand in each of her own she tries not to shiver at the memory of their rumba. Smiling playfully, she pulls back long enough to spin Emma in return. They rotate again and again, and when the song ends, Regina settles closer to Emma once more. “I mean, you’re a great dancer even when we start the lesson.”

“As are you, Miss Swan,” Regina replies smoothly, and crosses her arms to spin Emma, before she returns and does the same. “Exactly how many times has Miss Blanchard made you come to her classes?”

Emma laughs, and they turn out, away from each other before they resettle in their original position. “Enough,” she says, closing one eye in an exaggerated wince. “And you’re deflecting. For the second time tonight.”

“Bailbondsperson  _and_  psychologist, my what a resume.” Emma just continues to dance, Regina following her steps effortlessly. When Emma doesn’t respond, she sighs a little. “There was  _an incident_  at one of our courting-the-client dinners,” she starts. “A very important prospective company was our goal, and their CEO,” Emma spins her, “Albert Spencer, was dancing with me.

“There  _may_  have been a slight misstep, which caused him to stumble a bit and step on my foot.” She holds her head up high, even as shame heats her face. “Which may have elicited a similar response on my part.”

Emma laughs, pushing Regina away to spin her, and bringing her back. “He stepped on you, so you stepped on him, seems reasonable.”

“My heel fractured one of the bones in his toe.” This time Emma’s laugh is explosive, and Regina can’t help but laugh in return. “He signed a contract with our company, though there’s a chance it was under duress, fearing his life.”

“My kind of woman,” Emma breathes out on a laugh, and she must not have caught her own words, because she continues to chuckle softly, and hold Regina in her arms. “All of this because of  _one_  mistake?”

“A mistake that my entire office learned about in a matter of days,” she sneers.

“God, you’re a  _perfectionist_ , oh that makes sense.”

Regina’s eyes narrow. “ _Excuse me_?”

“You can’t stand that you made one mistake, so you’re taking a three-month course to avoid another one?” Emma’s eyes widen and she whistles low. “That’s commitment.”

“It’s natural to want to excel at things, Miss Swan,” she says defensively.

“Yeah, but it’s also natural to make mistakes.”

“Well that certainly seems to be something you would know about, given your past.” Emma’s face darkens, but she continues to hold on to Regina. To grip her hands and pull her close and when she resettles her hand on Regina’s back, almost her hip, she looks up into Emma’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs softly, almost swallowed in the music.

Emma doesn’t say anything for a moment, but spins Regina to face away from her, and crosses her hands over Regina’s waist still grasping Regina’s hands. Their hips are snug and Emma’s hands squeeze then settle on her hands. Breath ghosting over Regina’s ear, Emma whispers, “‘s OK,” and her eyes flutter shut in response.

Emma’s pressed tight against her, and she feels warm, so comfortably warm. Regina’s not sure if it’s the position—the way she can’t see Emma from here—or the alcohol that has left her lips a bit looser than usual, but she finds herself volunteering, “My father loved to dance,” over her shoulder.

“Yeah?” Emma asks, a bit wary.

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “When I was little he used to dance with me while he cooked.” Emma doesn’t say anything in response, but she pulls back to spin Regina around to face her. “He loved listening to Latin music in the kitchen,” she looks into Emma’s eyes, a smile growing on her lips. “Mother hated  _the noise,"_ she quotes her mother dryly, "but she was so rarely anywhere near that part of our house.”

“Not much of a cook?”

Regina laughs, a smile breaking over her face. “Not at all.” Emma spins Regina around, and Regina does the same, back and forth a few times. When they resettle, Regina looks out over Emma’s shoulder, and says softly, “I used to love to watch him cook, and dance. He was so full of joy so much of the time.” Emma pulls her closer, and she slides her hands to rest on Emma’s shoulders, her cheek resting against Emma’s. “When I was really little, he’d put me on his feet, and spin me around.”

“He sounds wonderful, Regina,” Emma whispers into her hair, and she hums.

“He was.”

“When did you lose him?” Emma’s question is soft against her skin, but her voice cracks with the heaviness of the topic.

The word  _lose_  registers like a heavy rock in her stomach, and she grips on to Emma tighter. “When I was twenty.”

“I’m sorry,” she strokes her fingers over the bare part of Regina’s lower back. “Do you still have your mother?”

The question is simple, and Regina registers the meaning, but she can’t help the bitter laugh that slides past her teeth. Had she ever  _had_  her mother? “No, she passed a few years ago as well.”

Emma doesn’t apologize again, and Regina is grateful. Instead she continues to keep Regina tucked into her, moving softly even as the music beats heavy.

“Thanks for answering,” Emma finally whispers, and when the music starts to fade out and change, Emma resettles her hands on Regina’s waist. She pulls them together again and Emma’s thighs land a bit off-center, on either side of her right leg.

Regina’s breath catches as she recognizes the position, of Emma’s intention with the heavier, richer song, and she’s embarrassed at the little gasp that sounds from her.

For a moment they stay like that, not moving, not dancing. And then Emma starts to lean in, closer and closer until her forehead rests against Regina’s. Putting just a of pressure on Regina’s right hip, she starts to sway them, moving with the music as their hips slide together.

Eyes fluttering closed, Regina breathes out, and presses her fingers harder into Emma’s shoulders. She can feel Emma’s hot skin beneath a few of her fingertips, where they curl over the fabric of her dress to her bare back.

Their movement is hypnotic, and she’s lost so quickly in the feel of Emma’s hands on her hips, her lower back. The feel of their thighs pressed together, the way their skirts slip over each other with the silky fabrics for long, long minutes.

Emma’s hand slides up from Regina’s waist to her back, bared by the cut of the dress. And then she’s dipping Regina, taking her time with it. Her eyes open at the movement, and her hands slide up to the back of Emma’s neck. When Emma pulls her back up, she’s wearing a dopey smile.

Emma leans in again, her cheek brushing against Regina’s lightly. “For the record,” she whispers, “ _this_  is my A game.”

Regina wants to glare at her for the teasing, for the way she’s made Regina feel so breathless. For the slick heat she can feel between her thighs. But instead she just murmurs, “I see,” and Emma— _infuriatingly arrogant Emma_ —smirks like she  _knows_.

“Want to get another drink?” she asks. “Take a little break?”

Throat thick, Regina just nods, and lets Emma take her by the hand to lead her back through the crowd. The bar is full now, no spots left at the counter, and so Emma gestures to a small table tucked a bit back from the rest of the floor. “Want to grab a spot while I get us some drinks?” she asks, fingers still tangled with Regina’s.

“Alright,” Regina nods, and feels an odd chill when they finally part. The bar is stuffy, hot from all of the body heat, and Regina pushes her hair away from her neck, feeling the slight moisture on her skin from their efforts on the dance floor.

The table is small, relatively private, and dim without the powerful dance floor lights. It feels intimate, and as she slides into the booth against the wall, she tries not to focus on the butterflies she feels.

Tonight has been so unexpectedly  _fun_  in such an odd sort of way—she’s shared and connected with Emma like she hasn’t with anyone outside her family in years. And not only had she done it, but it had gotten easier and easier with each revelation to Emma. Like a weight was lifting as the night—perhaps even the past few weeks—progressed.

Regina leans forward, the cushion sticking to her thighs, and rests her forearms on the table. From where she sits she can see Emma ordering their drinks; one hand up as the bartender comes to the end of the counter to meet her. When she orders, she keeps her instructions short, her arms tucked into her side so she’s not touching any of the patrons near her. But even from her distance, Regina can see the way she smiles when she takes the glasses, kind in an honest—if not exactly sunny—sort of way.

It’s strange, really, how a self-deprecating somewhat-cynical woman like Emma can still seem like she’s full of so much warmth, and hope. She makes Regina feel connected and understood, at the same time she also makes her feel open—makes her feel  _more_.

She turns around from the bar and heads over toward Regina, a small smile on her face as she sets the glasses down before scooting into the booth next to her. “To dancing without an audience,” Emma suggests, and Regina raises her glass to clink.

“Cheers,” she murmurs, and they both take a drink. She’s already warm from the bar, the dancing and the lights and the feel of Emma up against her over and over, but the alcohol warms her once more, settling in her belly.

Emma rests her glass on the table, and turns to angle toward Regina a bit, staring at her for a long moment. “What?” Regina finally asks, a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“Can I ask you a question?” Regina tenses at the request, and tucks her arms into her stomach.

Emma’s eyes are looking a bit dilated, heavy and slightly lidded in the dark bar. She looks almost soft like this, and it’s emphasized by the white dress and curled tendrils of hair that have fallen out of her ponytail with their activities.

Licking her lips slowly, Regina breathes, “I suppose.”

“Why, uh—how come you’re single?” Regina's lips part slightly, and her eyes narrow a bit at the unexpected question. 

Her immediate reaction is to tell Emma that it's absolutely none of her business. Which it isn't, of course.

Before she can respond, Emma's jaw clenches, and she holds up a hand. "You know what, that's not—forget I asked." She takes a drink, and when she sets the glass back down, she doesn't look at Regina again.

"That's a rather loaded question, Miss Swan." She's nearing her limit on sharing and connecting and  _revealing_ , but there is a drink in front of her still, and the music is still pounding through her skin, and so she's not quite there yet. 

"I'm in no rush," Emma shrugs casually, and leans back into her chair. 

Regina nudges at her drink with her thumb, the glass scraping on the damaged wood with a dull scratch. "I'm not exactly sure where to start," she admits softly, and more than anything she's said already tonight, it leaves her feeling far too open. 

"You don't have to, you know. We can just sit in silence and drink." Regina looks up and Emma's smiling at her, and holding her glass a few inches off of the table. "I was just wondering." Her face is neutral, interested but not pushy. 

"I got married when I was really young," she starts, and leans forward so her elbows can rest on the table. "To a wonderful man, named Daniel. When we were ready to start a family, we adopted Henry."

Emma's face opens at the information, her eyes wider, brows raised. "You adopted?" Her voice cracks on the question.

"Yes," Regina says carefully, and watches how Emma's body tenses, how her fingers curl in toward her palm.  _I've been an orphan my whole life_ , Regina remembers suddenly, and her stomach drops as she thinks of Emma alone.

"That's," Emma starts, "really cool." Emma winces a little at her own words, and Regina directs a smile down into her lap. "So you got Henry," Emma prompts.

"We did. Everything was fine, until shortly after Henry turned three," hot tears sting behind her eyes, and she clears her throat. "Daniel had always had some problems with his heart, it happened very quickly." 

Realization falls over Emma's features as she picks up what Regina hadn't said, and she swallows. "I'm sorry," she says sympathetically, but lets it rest at that. 

Nodding once, Regina reaches for her glass to give her fingers something to do. "Yes, well, Henry was rather young, fortunately. I don't think he remembers much from that age." She does, of course. "Then, when he was ten, he found out about his adoption accidentally, and," she bares her teeth a little, unsure of her words. "Didn't take it well," she finishes, and takes a drink of the scotch. 

"I can imagine," Emma murmurs a bit darkly, but there's no judgement in her eyes when she asks, "What happened?"

"He ran away from me. Literally and figuratively. And I, well, it was extremely difficult for me," shame rises in her chest. "I overcompensated by keeping him too close."

"Which made him pull away even more," Emma finishes, and Regina gives her a red-rimmed look in response. "But things are fine now?" she asks, tentatively. 

"I think they are," Regina breathes out. "We started to see a," she hesitates over the word, " _psychologist_ for family mediation." _  
_

"It takes a lot to admit something's wrong." Emma licks her lips, and her eyes search Regina's for a long moment before she looks back down. Breathes out: "I guess I know where Henry gets that bravery you mentioned."

Uncomfortable under Emma's acknowledgement, Regina leans back against the padded booth. "So, in answer to your question, I don't think it's wise for me to consider dating right now. I have no interest in upsetting my son further," she says evenly, and takes a slow drink.

"I get that," Emma nods. "Would uh,” her knees bump into Regina’s as she leans forward in her spot. “Do you think a friendship would upset him?”

Regina’s back stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“I know back in class you said…,” she trails off and waves her hand in acknowledgement of the previous conversation. “But hear me out. This is kind of nice, right?” she nods to the dance floor, her lip curling up into a lazy smile. “I mean, we could do this again, if you want; dancing, or maybe, I don’t know get a bite sometime?”

Emma’s question is, well, it’s  _tempting_. She is not wrong; it has been nice, surprisingly, to spend time like this with Emma. And truly what she is proposing is no different than Marian, or Kathryn:  _friendship_.

But even the word starts to muddy the waters between them, no longer as simplistic and clean as “dance partners”, and nothing more. (She doesn't dare factor in whatever _this_ has been, this sharing, nothing more than an anomaly.) Regina considers the question, looks up at Emma and she is smiling so warmly, but there is something open and vulnerable about the look, too, like this isn’t a question she ever asks.

“We’re here right now,” Regina finally says slowly, not answering her question, and slips out of the side of the booth to stand before taking a last sip of her drink. “Why don’t we dance, then?” For a moment she doesn’t move, and Emma starts to follow her off of the vinyl seat.

When she gets to the edge, Regina extends her arm, and opens her hand to help the other woman out of the seat and up. And Emma takes it, without hesitation, and lets Regina pull her up.

Their sudden proximity is startling, once they’re in front of one another so quickly and without the excuse of the dance floor. Emma stumbles a bit on her heel, and when she recovers she bumps against the edge of their table. In the weeks that Regina has known her she has never seemed  _shy_  before this moment, but when her eyes slip from Regina’s to her lips and back up it’s the only word that seems to fit.

“Shall we?” Regina asks, voice huskier than normal, and when Emma nods they make their way back to the floor.

They fall back into step with one another quickly, spinning each other and slipping in and out of leader and follower until the roles are almost fluid. Regina’s not sure how long they move, but her feet are starting to ache and every muscle feels stretched in such a pleasant, earned way.

When a slower song comes on, Emma lifts Regina’s arms in the air and settles them on her shoulders before she wraps her arms around Regina’s waist. Regina’s chin brushes against her arm, and she smirks at the position, whispering, “We’re not at a middle school dance, Emma,” into her ear, even as she settles her hands on Emma’s neck more comfortably.

Emma’s fingers tighten on her back at her name, and she starts to sway them lightly, hips still moving with the softer beat. “So?” she laughs softly, and the heat of her breath warms Regina’s cheek.

They stay like that through the song, and into the start of a second. Emma’s hands have drifted, until they’ve settled on either side of her hips, one resting dangerously close to the curve of her ass. It doesn’t feel intentional, the way they’ve ended up—Regina’s own fingers are stroking softly at the nape of Emma’s neck, their temples pressed together—but rather an easy sort of lazy, barely moving to the music.

Emma’s hands spread a bit as they move to her back, and when the tips of her fingers dip below the material of her dress bared from the cross back cut-out, Regina shivers.

It feels  _good_ , easy and tender and so, so intimate all at once. And this is such a dangerous path, because Emma’s touch is becoming almost addictive and she has just reminded them both that she is not looking for a relationship; she hasn’t even committed to a  _friendship_.

“I’m going to get some air,” Regina swallows, and pulls out of Emma’s arms quickly, heading for the exit.

It’s late, and the night air is cool on her skin. A shiver runs up her back as she breathes out, heavy, and takes a few steps away from the door slamming shut behind her.

This is  _such a bad idea_ , she knows. Because she is certain now, that the word  _potential_  that hangs over their interactions is growing, is shifting and changing and bolding as they share and share and share.

But that sharing is starting to feel so important and so nice, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to stop, either.

“Regina?” Emma steps out of the door, and she’s carrying Regina’s clutch in her hand. “Hey are you OK?”

Her eyes are full of concern and she’s moving closer but not too close—nowhere near what close tends to mean for them now—and waits.

“I’m fine,” she shakes her head, and crosses her arms in front of herself.

“Would you like to go?” Emma offers, but her brows are furrowed like it’s something she doesn’t quite want to offer.

“I—” Regina starts, and takes a step toward her. “I think that might be for the best,” she finishes, and Emma licks her lip as she shifts her stance.

“OK,” she starts to hand Regina’s purse over, stepping closer.

“It’s getting late,” Regina adds, because she’s not sure if Emma can tell that she’s not cutting her out, just stepping back. Rare for her, but it somehow feels like something she desperately needs to learn how to do. “As you said—” she starts again, but they are disturbed as a rowdy group leaves the club, crowding them.

Emma steps against the brick wall at their side, leans in close to hear over the noise of the others. “We could do this again, perhaps,” Regina finishes, and her words are soft as she realizes they are—once again— _so close_.

“OK,” Emma nods, and her eyes flicker down to Regina’s lips, her hand coming to rest on the brick wall beside her. She knows what’s about to happen, knows that she should stop it, but when Emma starts to dip forward, Regina’s lips part as she sucks in a soft breath.

Eyes flickering closed, the last thing she sees is Emma’s half-lidded eyes watching her so closely, her own lips glistening in the moonlight.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Emma breathes out against her face, and it isn’t what Regina expects. Disappointment and rejection sting hot in her chest, and her eyes flicker open. “I didn’t—” she cuts herself off and pulls back from the wall. “I’ll drive you to your car,” she says, and Regina can see the muscles of her jaw tense.

“No, I,” Regina steps back, and gestures to a few cars sitting halfway down the block. “I think I’ll take a cab.” Her face is burning from what almost happened, from what didn’t happen, from the night and the heat and the sharing.  _The potential._ “Good night, Miss Swan,” she says evenly, and turns toward the taxi a few feet away.


	3. family fun, dontcha-cha know

Regina doesn’t know what to expect for their next class, but Emma being there before her isn’t it. She’s standing next to Mulan and Archie, smiling at something Archie has said, when she looks up and happens to catch Regina’s eye. Unsure where Emma is after their not-date and not-kiss, she keeps her head held high and walks directly to the back corner to put her things down.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Emma whispers as Regina drops her coat from her shoulders and sets it on the table. And Regina breathes, her shoulders taut from a long week of not-knowing.

“And why wouldn’t I be,” she can’t help but reply. Her words are a bit snippy, her tone a little biting, and yet when she looks to the side, Emma holds her eyes.

“No idea,” she says with a tight smile like she’s worried, and she leans her hand on the table beside her.

“I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly,” she starts, glancing around to see who else is near them before she walks away from the table to the edge of the dance floor. “I—”

“Relax, Regina,” Emma says softly, and smiles a bit more genuinely, but a little bit smaller, too. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I swear it wasn’t—it just kind of happened, you know?”

And Regina does. She remembers as well as Emma does how their night turned into something so much deeper, how they ended up pressed against that alley wall so close to making such a stupid decision.  “I do,” is all she says, but Emma smiles in relief and it’s enough, it seems.

“So, are we OK?” she asks, and exhales when Regina nods. “Partners?” she reaches out a hand and—in the grand scheme of things, after seven weeks of dancing pressed against one another and almost making out behind a dance club less than a week ago—it’s not a big deal. Still, she hesitates before the contact, and tries not to let her breath catch when their palms settle against one another.

Touch is so much easier before you realize that you’ve started to crave it.

Emma squeezes her hand almost imperceptibly, and then drops it so Mary Margaret can walk them through the next bit of the rumba. Regina spends the time focusing so hard on making her movements clinical like they had been in the beginning, at least until they can learn to navigate their proximity again; until the memory of Emma’s hand beside her head, her breath hot on Regina’s lips, starts to fade.

Not that thinking about just such a memory is helping her. “Here,” Emma says, before she reaches for Regina’s hand, and turns her so they’re facing one another. She pulls Regina into frame so she’s leading, and their first steps are rough, a little awkward. Regina can’t help feeling like the entire class is watching them after the previous week.

Emma continues to lead her around, small steps and no embellishments, just the basic steps. Even those are a struggle for several minutes.

“Hey,” Emma says in a stage whisper. “If you want I can see if Mary Margaret will clear a big circle for us,” a large smile on her face. "Maybe we can demonstrate for everyone, what do you think?"

It’s obvious what Emma is trying to do, to loosen her up. Still, it works, and she can feel her shoulders loosen as she follows Emma more naturally. A smile starts to pull at her lips as her body relaxes into the dance.  _Friendship_ , she tries to tell herself, and she rolls her hips once, twice as they move forward, and then to the side in little steps.

It takes most of the class, but by the end of the night Regina thinks it’s possible they can move past their almosts, and more importantly, she knows she genuinely wants to. Regina loves the few people in her life dearly, but—while they are certainly  _fun_  in ways that keep her from pulling too far away—there is always a sense of responsibility with them, in some form or another.

Being with Emma is free in a way she hasn’t felt since Daniel, a true sort of partnership. And Emma is  _not_  Daniel—in so many ways, though not necessarily bad ones—but until they started spending time together she hadn’t realized just how much she missed that sort of freedom.

It’s thrilling, like a rediscovered path, at the same time that it scares her. Because it’s foolish to accept—especially to be the one to push for—a friendship when she so clearly can see something  _more_  for them.

The last song is starting to end, and Emma pulls her closer, still that sweet smile on her face. And Regina picks up without intention, dropping Emma’s hand and spinning her before they come back together, extending their arms to finish the move as their hips sway back and forth on the last notes.

Mary Margaret claps her hands and Regina starts to go for her purse as she praises their work and dismisses them.

“I was serious about the friends thing,” Emma says when she falls into step beside her. “I don’t—” she cuts herself off and gently cups Regina’s elbow to pull her to the side, away from the rest of the class. “It’s not generally my thing. I’ve got a few people I hang out with, but for the most part I’m a loner. There’s a reason Mary Margaret pushes me to take these classes.”

Regina’s brows raise a little, and it’s mostly teasing. “So you’ve done this before? Pick up  _friends_  dancing?” Perhaps a hint of disappointment.

“No,” she says, and doesn’t offer any further explanation. “But I had a lot of fun last week, enough that I’m willing to listen to Mary Margaret say  _I told you so_  for the next several months.” Slipping her hands into her back pockets, she shrugs, “So, what do you say?”

It’s  _foolish_ , she thinks again, knows it’s a mistake, so she bares her teeth a little before she commits. “I suppose I can be open to a friendship, Miss Swan.” At Emma’s pointed look, she drops her shoulders a little. “ _Emma._ ”

“OK,” she says, her eyes widening slightly with her surprise, and her smile grows. “So, one of those people I hang out with works at one of those indoor rock climbing facilities. Have you ever been?”

Regina purses her lips, a bit surprised at the subject. “I can’t say that I have.”

Emma swallows, and bites her lip a moment before she asks, “Has Henry?” The question is even more jarring, and Regina narrows her eyes. “Look, I know you don’t get that much time with Henry and I don’t want to take you away from him on the weekend. I thought this could be something he might enjoy.” Holding out one hand, she adds, “If you’re comfortable with that. With him meeting me.”

She isn’t quite sure how to respond. This isn’t like one of the few dates she’s been on in the past decade; if Emma is a  _friend_  there isn’t the same danger of introducing someone into his life that might not stick around, after all. A fact that would only serve as an important reminder for her should they end up in the same position as they did the other night.

“Alright,” Regina finally says softly, and reaches for her coat and purse. “I’ll talk to him and let you know.”

Emma smiles, and reaches out for a moment like she’s going to touch Regina, but instead drops her hand to her side. “Cool, I guess maybe see you this weekend, then?”

Regina smiles, and slips her coat on. “Perhaps.” Pulling her keys from her purse, she tucks the purse beneath her shoulder and gestures to the doors. “Good night, Emma,” she says, and heads toward the doors, stomach unsettled in the best sort of way.

* * *

“Henry, are you ready to go?” Regina asks from the archway of the living room.

Henry is spread out on the couch playing one of his hand-held video games, and at Regina’s question he nods but doesn’t look up. “Yeah, is she here?”

Regina glances down at her phone, the time reading a few minutes before one, with no messages. “Not quite, dear.” Henry continues clicking away at the buttons, and Regina adds, “Would you rather stay home, Henry? You know you don’t have to do this if you’re not interested.”

At that, Henry does pause and save his game and pull his feet from the sofa, dropping them to the ground to look at his mom. “Would  _you_  rather I stay home?”

“No,” she breathes out, and takes a step toward him. “I would love for you to come, Henry.”

Smiling, he stands up and flips the game closed. “Relax, mom, I’m joking,” he leans against the arm of the couch, and watches as Regina looks at her phone again. “Like I’m going to pass up an opportunity to see you try and climb a rock wall?”

Regina’s eyes narrow playfully. “I’ll have you know that before I was,” she hesitates over  _your mother_ , “an executive that spent most of my time in an office, I was quite active.”

“Uh huh,” Henry says unconvincingly, as the doorbell rings.

Reaching out and taking Henry by the shoulders, she leads him out of the living room and into the foyer. “You’ve been spending too much time with Kathryn,” Regina murmurs. “Grab your things, please,” she gently nudges him toward the stairs.

Once her son is on his way up the stairs—and she is out of his sightline—she runs her hands over her hair to smooth down the braid before tugging open the door.

“You didn’t say you lived in a mansion,” Emma smiles, gesturing behind her into the house.

“And hello to you, too, dear.” She steps to the side. “Henry will be right down. Would you like to come in?”

Emma nods, and steps over the threshold. She’s wearing black exercise shorts and a loose grey tank top, and Regina does nothing to stop the way her eyes scan over the muscle exposed by the shirt.

“Finally,” Emma laughs, and when Regina tears her eyes from Emma’s arms she can see her looking down at Regina’s legs.

Smirking, Regina reaches for her bag on the hook by the door and shoulders it, crossing her arms in front of her. “Yes, I hope this means you’ll finally let the subject drop at class,” she says, running her hands over the yoga pants she wears.

“Hi,” Henry’s voice sounds as he comes back down the stairs, water bottle in hand and shoes on. He looks over at Regina as he nears the doorway, a little shy.

“Hey, kid,” Emma holds one hand up in a wave. “I’m Emma. Your mom’s told me a lot about you,” she smiles, and drops her hand to rest on the waistband of her shorts.

Henry smiles back. “She’s told me a lot about you, too.”

Regina shifts a bit uncomfortably when Emma turns to her, and asks, “Yeah?” genuine surprise in the sound—and perhaps just a  _bit_  of smugness. “She tell you I’m an amazing dancer?”

Smirking over at Regina, Henry nods. “No, but she told my aunt,” he says knowingly, and Regina feels heat rising on her neck.

“Really?” Emma asks, this time  _very_  smugly, and Regina clears her throat.

“Yes, well everyone has at least  _one_  redeeming quality, after all.” She sniffs, and picks up her own water from the side table nearby. “Shall we be going?”

Emma smiles, and her eyes linger for a moment before she looks back to Henry. “You excited, Henry?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been.”

“Cool,” she heads back out to the porch. “Your mom said you were into fencing, so I figure you’ve got some wicked upper body control.”

“Nah, I’m not that good,” Henry dismisses, and follows Emma out as Regina locks up behind them.

“I doubt that. I wouldn’t want to fight you,” Emma teases, and Regina smiles softly to herself as she slides her keys into her purse and follows them toward Emma’s bug. It is not an ideal ride—obviously—but Emma had insisted she pick them up since she invited them out.

“Yeah, mom said you lost to a door at your guys’ first class.”

Emma’s head turns to look at Regina quickly, and she gives an exaggerated wince. “Ouch, kid. You are definitely your mother’s son.” She opens the passenger door and flips the seat forward before standing back up and narrowing her eyes as she looks at Henry. She reaches out and sets the tips of her fingers on his shoulder, and leans back to size him up. “On second thought, I bet I could take you.” Laughing, Henry ducks into the backseat at Emma drops her hand.

For a moment, Regina is frozen in place at the sight. At how easy things are between her son and her new friend, strangers. Henry is warm and sweet and accepting—so much like Daniel—and she’s a bit taken aback when she realizes the same is true about Emma, like this. It's oddly comforting, but she notices the contrast immediately; where Daniel was calm and relaxed, Emma seems somehow alight, like her warmth could scorch her, given the chance. 

Emma looks over at her, and Regina rolls her lips together, clearing her throat as she comes back. “Miss Swan, please do not pick a fight with my son,” she says dryly, and lets Emma rest her hand on her back to guide her into the righted passenger seat.

* * *

“That wall is  _enormous_ ,” Regina hisses once they’re in line to be geared up. Her head turns sharply, eyes narrowed as she adds, “There is no way that this can possibly be safe.”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Henry says beside her. “Online it says this place was for kids 5 and up.”

“Yeah,” Emma nods to him, and gestures toward a family already halfway up the wall. “See, it’s safe.” Looking back at Regina she asks, “What did you think it was going to be like?”

“Like one of those small walls they tote around to birthday parties,” she defends. “10- or 15-feet high at the most.”

“That’s lame, Mom.”

“Henry!”

“The kid’s not wrong, Regina.” Regina glares over at Emma, who holds her hands up in defense. “Hey, my friend has been working here for years, and she is going to personally strap us in and give us the instructions, alright?”

“I hope you climb better than you walk through doors.”

“Ha-ha,” Emma says dryly, and rolls her eyes. “But I guess you’re just going to have to take that chance.” She looks over Regina’s shoulder to the counter and smiles. “Hey, Ruby.”

“Em!” The unfamiliar brunette smiles wide at Emma, and rounds the counter to give her a hug. “I’m so excited, you haven’t been here in forever.” She pulls back, and turns to Regina. “You must be Regina, right? And you’re Henry?”

“Hi,” Henry waves, his cheeks pinking a bit at the friendly woman’s smile.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Regina nods.

“Thanks for doing this, Rubes,” Emma says, and Ruby picks up a pile of fabric straps from the end of the counter.

“Of course,” she smiles again, and gestures toward the far end of the large wall, still fairly empty for a Saturday afternoon. “Let’s head over there and then we’ll get you guys strapped up.”

“Yes, thank you, Ruby,” she starts, and grips her bag a bit tighter. “But I have some concerns about how safe this is,” she rests a hand on Henry’s back.

“Mom,” Henry warns, but Regina pats him lightly.

“I get that,” Ruby nods, and comes to a stop at the base of the climbing wall. “But honestly, if you’re hooked up the right way—which you will be—there’s nothing to worry about.”

Ruby’s words do little to soothe her, but Henry’s looking up at the wall in awe, and she can never seem to deny her little boy anything. She’ll at least hear a bit more about the process.

Ruby sets the harnesses down on the ground. “OK, let me grab you guys some shoes for starters. Sizes?” she asks, and they each answer. “Sweet, I’ll be right back. Em, do you wanna start getting them set up?”

“Sure,” Emma nods, and reaches down to the pile to pick out two different harnesses, one red and one grey. “OK, kid, here’s yours,” she hands him the grey one, “and for you,” hands Regina the other.

Henry and Regina watch as she takes the last one, stepping into it and copying her movements. “You guys in?”

“I believe so,” Regina nods, looking at Henry’s harness loose on him, her own feeling the same. “These do not seem secure.”

“They’re not locked yet,” Emma winks to Henry, and steps over to Regina to stand in front of her. “Can I?” she asks, and gestures to the straps that hang loose on her hips.

“Alright,” Regina nods, and Emma reaches over to pull one through the buckle on the end of the other, pulling tight. “How does that feel?” she asks softly, and Regina nods. “OK, so you pull it through,” she says out loud, “and then once it’s snug you double it back to lock it.” She follows her own instructions as she grips the straps, her knuckles brushing against Regina’s stomach with the movement. “Still good?” she asks, and Regina nods once more.

“OK kid, you next,” Emma clears her throat and steps back, turning to run through the same process with him. Once locked in, she tugs on the hip straps a few times. “How about you, does that feel OK?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and Emma pats his arm before she steps into her own harness.

Ruby returns with three pairs of shoes, and hands them to each of them. “Put those on and let me know how they feel. These shoes fit a bit differently, so if they don’t feel good I’ll get you a different pair.”

“I think I’m good,” Henry says once he’s got his on.

“I am as well,” Regina agrees, and they set their own shoes off to the side.

“Great! Let me just check these,” Ruby murmurs, and tugs on Regina’s harness first before Henry and then Emma. “Looks like you remembered,” Ruby smiles to her friend, and then pulls a few coils of rope from a hook on the wall. “OK, who wants to go first?”

“I’ll go,” Henry says quickly, and Regina winces.

“Why don’t you let me go first, dear,” Regina says, brooking no argument. Emma smirks at her across from Henry, and she narrows her eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking, Miss Swan, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

“Not a word,” Emma holds up her hands, and Ruby looks between them before she hands the coil of rope to Regina. Ruby goes over the instructions with all of them, showing them how to measure the length of rope and loop it into their harness.

“OK, Regina, are you ready?” Ruby asks, and Regina looks at the wall a bit warily before she nods.

“Alright.”

“I’ll be your belayer to start with,” Ruby says, and goes over the safety system with Regina and Henry, showing how she’ll lock the rope and keep the tension in case Regina falls. Once Regina’s rope is hooked into Ruby’s harness, she looks over to Emma, and eyes sparkling a bit mischievously says, “Unless you’d rather have Emma do it.”

“Hardly,” Regina scoffs, but the idea of Emma being her spotter isn’t  _exactly_  the most laughable idea, a far cry from how she would have felt just few weeks ago.

“I’ll remember that when we start doing lifts in class,” Emma shoots back, and Regina raises an eyebrow at the comment.

“Is that right?” she asks, and before she can continue, Ruby cuts in.

“Maybe we should get started?” At Regina’s nod, she says, “Great,” and guides Regina to stand up against the wall, Henry and Emma following. Ruby explains how to climb, instructing Regina to keep her arms straight, and keep her hip to the wall to avoid letting gravity pull her back. “And be sure to step with your toes, to give you the best leverage to reach the hand holds,” she finishes. “Any concerns?”

“Obviously,” Regina says dryly, but looks over her shoulder at Henry watching her. “I suppose I better get this over with,” she sighs dramatically, and takes her first step up the wall, and then another, and a third.

And it’s not nearly as difficult as she’d expected it to be. “Looking good, mom,” Henry says on her fourth step, and the praise from her son makes her embarrassingly proud.

“What he said,” Emma adds, and that compliment doesn’t make her smile any less.

She continues up the wall, following Ruby’s instructions as she goes, chalking her hands and evaluating the correct holds and feeling the strain on her muscles by the ten-foot mark.

On the floor she can hear Emma and Henry talking, but not really their words, their voices low. It makes her warm at the same time it makes her a bit nervous, the two talking without her.

But the climb is surprisingly distracting, and very surprisingly  _freeing_. She’s never been a fan of heights—not exactly afraid of them, either—but as she gets higher and higher she realizes how much it reminds her of riding. It’s not the same in so many ways, not the same muscles or movements or even the same sensations. But it’s the same feeling, and when she finally slows, she’s hesitant to nod to Ruby to let her down.

When she finally sets her feet back on the ground, Henry is watching her with wide eyes, and he looks so much like her little boy and not a teenager, she staggers more at that than the sensation of floor beneath her once again.

“That was awesome,” he breathes out, and Regina smiles self-consciously before she finally nods to Ruby and lets Henry get ready to go up.

* * *

“So,” Ruby says, standing beside Regina, belaying for Henry and Emma, respectively. (“I trust you,” Emma had said easily, but face serious, when Regina insisted Henry continue to have the professional spot for him.”)

“Yes?” Regina asks, and looks over at the other woman, waiting for a full sentence.

“Emma’s told me a lot about you.”

“Has she,” Regina murmurs, looking up to watch Emma point out a rock for Henry to grab beside her. “That’s nice.”

“And rare,” Ruby says, and pulls Henry’s slack taut as he gets higher. “I’m glad you guys are…” she trails off, and Regina keeps looking up at the others, and pointedly not at Ruby.

“Friends,” Regina answers for her, though tail of the word rises a bit like a question.

“OK.”

“Has she told you something differently?” Regina asks, a bit confused at Ruby’s implication.

“She hasn’t told me anything about your relationship, Regina. But I sure as hell got a lot of texts about you those first few weeks.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“Yeah, they kind of weren’t,” she laughs, but Regina purses her lips in an effort to still her own smile. “She said you were bossy and aloof, and irritating.”

“Charming.”

“Yeah,” Ruby says, “that too.”

At that Regina does look over, a bit startled, before turning back to the wall to watch Emma and tighten the slack as she continues to climb. “Oh.” Their day has been nice, and easy; the kind of day she has with Marian or Kathryn and Henry, albeit far less actively. But that hint of something more, something decidedly not-platonic has a habit of sneaking up on them over and over. “We’re not—” she starts, and then because Emma and Henry are out of earshot, and Ruby is important to Emma, she finishes, “I’m afraid nothing more is going to happen, Ruby.”

“OK,” Ruby nods, clearly satisfied by Regina’s honesty. “Can I ask why?”

Regina considers telling her no. She’s already shared far more with this stranger than she would have two months ago. But as her relationship with Emma continues to grow, and be pushed in the direction they’re keeping it, there is an undeniable part of her that is ready to vent her concerns. “I have a son,” she starts.

Smiling, Ruby tugs on the loose end of the rope in her hand. “I’m aware.”

Ignoring her response—must  _all_  of her friends be so smart-mouthed?—she adds, “And from what Emma has told me, she is not the most  _rooted_  individual.” Ruby furrows her brow in confusion. “She’s told me about how much she’s moved around. That she’s living with Mary Margaret to avoid signing any sort of long lease.”

Realization dawns on Ruby’s face, and she smiles before turning to look back up at Henry. He’s slowed down considerably once they’ve hit the thirty-foot mark, and Ruby shouts up, “You ready to come down?”

At his nod, Ruby starts to lower him, and Emma gestures for Regina to do the same. “Has she told you how long she’s lived with Mary Margaret?” Ruby asks, voice low as the climbers start to come down inch-by-inch.

“I don’t believe so, no,” Regina says, teeth bared a bit in her interest.

“She moved here about five years ago,” Ruby says. “She moved around out of necessity when she was younger, and every time she got comfortable some place, someone else changed the game on her.

“I think it’s hard for her to think of herself as someone with roots,” Ruby says, and smiles up at her friend. “But she’s a lot more rooted than she seems.”

* * *

Emma and Henry hit it off well. Surprisingly well, really. And Regina isn’t afraid to tell Emma that it’s because she’s far too much like a teenager herself.

A month passes. They start and finish the quickstep—and the cha-cha—in class, and out of class Emma becomes somewhat of a fast fixture in their lives; a movie on the weekend, dinner at the mansion—as Emma continues to refer to it—during the week, texts and calls and emails that start and continue without anyone really noticing.

And every interaction is getting harder. Much,  _much_  harder, because Emma has a—beyond irritating—ability to be somehow completely friendly and effortlessly romantic with her. They’d acknowledged their chemistry, the mutual attraction, that first night out together, and haven’t mentioned it since.

Which is, she supposes, what she wants. Or at the very least, what she  _needs_. Because even as her relationship with Emma has deepened, her reasons for denying that initial romantic spark have not changed; she is mourning her late husband, and she still has no desire to endanger her relationship with her son, no matter how much Henry and Emma get along.

Occasionally, when she sees them together, she worries that she’s crossed that line. That she’s let Emma too far into their lives for Emma to ever be pulled back out without devastation. But there is a difference, she figures, in a romantic relationship; an expectation of permanence that makes her nervous and anxious for her son.

And—when she’s being very,  _very_  honest—for herself, too.

* * *

“Yeah, yeah, you’re getting too strong, kid,” Emma pushes at his bicep as they all walk through the door into the house. “And your mom’s got a competitive streak that—I swear to god, Regina—gives you superhuman accuracy.” Regina smirks, setting her purse down on the foyer side table as Emma points at her.

“Might I remind you that it was  _you_  who bragged you could beat both of us single-handedly?” Regina quirks a brow as Henry laughs.

“I’m an excellent bowler,” she grumbles, and Regina puts her hands on her hips, still smirking.

“Henry, what was Emma’s score at the end?”

“One-seven—”

“Don’t you have homework?” Emma pushes him further into the house and Regina laughs softly.

“It’s the middle of summer.”

“You’re a smart kid, I figure you do those summer reading lists.”

“You think my mom is going to go easier on you?” he says smartly, before pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Nick’s asking if I want to come over,” Henry looks to Regina. “Is that OK?”

“Sure, Henry,” she smiles, and he stuffs his phone back in his pocket before he turns toward the door. “Be home by nine,” she instructs, hand brushing her hand over the back of his head as he moves past.

“Thanks, mom. See you Monday, Emma,” he tosses over his shoulder before he heads out of the house to his friend’s down the street.

The door echoes shut, and Regina turns to Emma, suddenly nervous. The two of them haven’t been alone since the night at the club, either meeting at the dance class or with Henry, at the house or going somewhere.

Henry’s words hit her, after a moment; the assumption that Emma will be over Monday night. She has been for the past three weeks, but it’s not fixed, not something pre-determined. When she looks at Emma she’s watching her carefully, brow furrowed a bit with concern, and the she clears her throat. “I could head out,” she offers, no desire to do so in the tone or words, and Regina finds she doesn’t want that, either.

“Or we could have a drink,” she counters and gestures to the bar in the dining room.

“OK,” Emma nods, and follows her.

“Cider?” she offers, and Emma’s had it before, a few times now. Knows that she makes it herself from the apple tree in the yard.

Smiling, Emma slides her hands into her back pockets. “Of course.”

The house is quiet—much, much quieter that it ever is, even when Henry isn’t home. The air is thick with the silence, and Regina feels it settling heavy on her skin. She hands the glass to Emma, and takes her own into the living room, feeling Emma follow, and hearing the soft footfalls of her boots and the wood floor.

As the silence starts to grow, Regina fears breaking it. She’s not sure what to say, not sure how to navigate the privacy with Emma under these new roles. They sip in silence, on opposite ends of her couch, and she can feel Emma sneaking glances at her again and again.

Finally, she rises from the couch, setting her glass down on the coffee table, and goes to the CD player against the wall.

“What are you doing?” Regina’s voice cracks against the still air, and Emma hits play before she turns around, slipping her leather jacket off and setting it in an empty chair.

Emma’s smile is the softest she’s ever seen when she looks at Regina, and she holds out a hand easily. “Dance with me,” she says, and Regina hesitates for a small moment before she sets her own glass down, and takes Emma’s hand.

Being in her arms isn’t new. It’s something she’s done over and over with Emma, until she knows the feel of her against and around her better than most things. But this is more, is different. It’s new and tentative at the same time as it feels like a gentle memory, familiar and comfortable and warm.

“Is this OK?” Emma asks—whispers, really—against her ear as she settles Regina against her chest. One hand rests on her back, lower than it should be like that first dance, and the other still holds hers. But instead of out to the side, cheek height like they’re so used to, Emma rests their hands just above her breast. Her fingers are curved over Regina's hand lazily, none of the firm frame that she knows.

It feels like she’s melting into Emma.

It feels  _right_.

They start to sway, and she isn’t sure who starts it but neither is leading, not really. They’re barely moving, just a few slow steps in between the swaying, and yet she’s getting dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

The song changes once, then again, and again, and Regina figures that they must have been dancing for a half-hour before it happens. Before she feels Emma’s lips brush against her cheek.

The touch might have been accidental, their cheeks have been pressed together for more than a song, and she can feel every breath of Emma against her skin, her hair. Emma’s hand on her back has fallen a little, resting on her low back. Their hands against Emma’s chest have become weak with their effort, her forearm pressed against the soft curve of Emma’s breast, and she can feel the hard peak of her nipple through the thin tank top Emma seems to forever be in.

“Regina,” Emma whispers, and her lips brush against her again with the movement.

Wetting her lips, Regina feels her breath catch as  _again_  echoes in her head. She’s got one hand on Emma’s shoulder, and she squeezes, unable to stop herself as she nods. Their movements are like molasses, slow and thick, and Emma’s breath is so, so sweet as it ghosts across her cheek to the corner of her lips.

They’re no longer dancing, they're still. She doesn’t even realize it until Emma’s lips slot against her own, her bottom lip caught between both of Emma’s.

The song changes but they don’t, just standing still, pressed together, feeling and touching and tasting their partner, until  _finally_ , Emma’s tongue slides over her lip. Regina can’t swallow, can’t breathe, can barely part her lips to kiss Emma deeper until Emma’s fingers press into the curve of her spine and make her moan, deep but quiet.

The noise is enough to kickstart their moment, the music filtering back into her ears, and she clutches Emma’s shoulder harder as Emma starts to walk her back one step, two steps. She can feel the couch hit the back of her legs before Emma steps back, their lips parting on a sigh.

Emma’s face is flushed, eyes lidded slightly, and Regina’s certain she looks the same, breathless as she feels.

For a long moment, they just watch each other as they catch their breath from the kiss, from the moment.

“Friendship isn’t going to work,” Emma finally says, eyes sorrowful in the low light of her living room. “Is it?”

Regina’s eyes flick down to Emma’s mouth, and feels her own lips still tingling from the brief contact. Slowly, she unfurls her fingers from Emma’s, and drops her hand from her shoulder. Swallowing hard, she leans back, the air chilling her warm face no longer pressed up against Emma’s.

“No,” she looks back up to Emma’s eyes. “I don’t suppose it is.”

Emma gives her a long look, and Regina thinks she could feel a small bit of her heart breaking, if it hadn’t already when Daniel died. “Emma—” she starts, but Emma takes a step back and holds up a hand.

“No, Regina, don’t,” she gives a tight smile, and breathes out harshly before she shakes her head. “You said you weren’t looking or ready for a relationship, and I get that, I do.” She grits her teeth, and drops her arms to her side. “I think we both should have known this wasn’t going to work, right? We just, we ignored every sign that said we couldn’t do this, pretend to only have these platonic feelings when we both know how good it feels to hold each other.”

Regina opens her mouth to speak but Emma cuts her off. “Don’t—I know you do, too.” Closing her eyes, she exhales hard enough for her chest to visibly drop. “I should go.”

Emma grabs her coat off of the couch, and heads through the study to the front door, before she twists the doorknob. Lightly chilled air begins to seep in through the crack of the door, and Regina isn’t sure if it’s Emma’s defeated posture or the breeze that sends a shiver up her spine.

“Why couldn’t you have had some  _stupid_ reason not to date me?” she tries to joke, but her laugh is wet and Regina knows when she turns around she’ll see red-rimmed eyes and that sad little pout that she makes without trying.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Regina offers, and starts to rest her hand on Emma’s back. But the contact would be too much, for both of them, and so instead she lets her hand fall silently back to her side.

“Me too,” Emma sniffs, and slips outside without turning around, the door thuds behind her.


	4. find me samba-dy to love

Emma doesn’t come over for dinner on Monday. She texts  **I have a last minute jumper, won’t make dinner, sorry** , and Regina has a sick, sick feeling that these are the beginning signs of Emma Swan running away.

Regina doesn’t text her back, and when Henry sits down at the table with, “Emma’s not coming tonight. Can I have her chicken?” she realizes what a tremendous mess she’s made of everything.

Friendship, it would seem, was not an expectation-less alternative. Emma Swan is as much a part of her son’s life as she is Regina’s, the same way that Marian and Kathryn have been. Really, she has no excuse, and she berates herself that night for blinding herself to the reality.

On Thursday, Mary Margaret— _of all people, Miss Swan_ , she had asked Emma once,  _why must you room with such an irritating woman?_ to which Emma had laughed and laughed—pulls her aside before she can even pretend to not be looking for Emma, to tell her that Emma won’t be there this week. She’s apologetic and meek and when her eyes widen she looks rather distinctly like a cartoon rabbit.

She dances with Will, and he’s quiet for most of the lesson—which she appreciates—on the samba—which she doesn’t, it reminds her too much of salsa and Emma and a time before things started to fall apart.

But at the end of class he puts his hand on the back of his neck, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he tells her that Emma has a habit of pushing away. “Don’t let her,” he says, and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“For a loner, she certainly has a number of friends like you to look out for her,” Regina says, only a bit defensively.

“It didn’t happen easy,” he rolls his shoulders forward, and Regina misses Emma. “And she didn’t initiate with us, love,” he clucks his tongue. “Circumstance is how she’s made most of her friends. I’ve never seen her work toward someone the way she wants to work toward you.”

And really, it only serves to confuse things. Because Emma is a runner, and Regina hasn’t worked toward anyone other than Henry in her life. Things with Daniel had been easy and smooth, and Marian and Kathryn had fit into her life through circumstance, much like Emma's friends.

She’s not sure if she’s ready to work toward Emma, but what frightening is she thinks she might want to. Emma’s a runner when things get difficult and she’s a pusher when things go well. They’re a terrible match, by all accounts.

Regina doesn’t want to want Emma; she doesn’t want to work toward her because she doesn’t want to work toward anyone. Doesn't want to open herself up like that.

* * *

It’s Saturday, and she hasn’t heard from Emma in almost a week. She still hasn’t texted her back, or called, or emailed, or anything. Regina’s pretty sure that Henry has talked to her, but truthfully, she’s scared to ask.

The doorbell rings, and her heart starts to beat harder, as she walks toward the door, and she tightens her hands into fists briefly, shakes them out and opens it.

She’s certain her face falls before she can mask the reaction, and Marian’s sympathetic face confirms the suspicion. “What are you doing here?” she asks, and though she doesn’t mean it to be, it’s accusatory.

“Henry told me that you could use some girl talk,” she smiles, but it’s more gentle than teasing.

“Did he?” She asks as she turns to look at the stairs, but Henry is not lingering as he usually does.

“Actually,” Marian steps into the house and shuts the door behind her. “He said it was time for some tough love.” Watching Regina carefully, she asks, “Is it?”

“Why don’t you come in,” she says in lieu of an answer, and Marian runs her hand over Regina’s arm as she heads toward the study.

* * *

It takes shockingly little effort on Marian’s part to get her talking. She hasn’t vented like this to anyone—save Emma, and certainly not on this topic—since shortly after Daniel died, and she thinks her ribcage should have broken with the weight that sat behind it.

“So,” Marian asks, when she’s finally confessed that she can’t deny that she has feelings for Emma, even though they’re messy and this could so easily lead to an equally disastrous relationship, given their natures. “What are you going to do?”

“If I knew that, I don’t think my son would have called in for backup,” she says wryly, and tries to blink back the wetness that has been threatening to leave her lashine. “I know you and Kathryn don’t think so, but moving on from Daniel feels like a betrayal, and I can’t shake that.”

“Have you noticed,” she starts, and presses her hands out on her knees, legs bent beneath her. “That you don’t keep pictures of Daniel out?”

Regina’s eyes narrow, confused and defensive at the topic. “Excuse me? After the funeral I couldn’t—”

“That’s not a judgement, Regina,” she says softly, and cuts her off before she can get too defensive. “I just mean, do you think it’s possible that your effort to honor and protect and  _mourn_  Daniel is more like denial?”

“I haven’t denied that he’s  _gone_ , Marian.”

“But have you accepted that he’s never coming back?” Regina’s throat starts to burn, and the tears do start to fall, now, hot and heavy down her cheeks. “It just seems like you went from losing Daniel to taking care of Henry, and I don’t think I ever saw you fall apart. And not in some specific way, I just didn’t see you  _grieve_.”

She wants to argue, to insist that she did, of course she did. “I can’t go through it,” she says weakly instead, and her voice is as broken as she feels. She means then, and she means again, should she go down this route with Emma. A route that scares her so, so deeply.

“Honey, that’s the cost of loving,” she takes Regina’s hand, and squeezes. “And I know that it hurts you so deeply because that’s how you love.

“Regina,” she asks, “even knowing you would lose him, was it worth it?”

And this time she thinks her ribcage does break, fractures with the force of the sob caught in her chest as she nods, “Yes.” Marian squeezes her hand again, and Regina wipes at the tears lingering to her jawline. “I think that’s enough tough love for one day.”

“OK,” Marian agrees, and starts to stand. Regina opens the door to the study, and they’re silent as Regina walks her friend to the front door. “Are you alright?” she asks, turning before she opens the door.

“I think I will be,” she nods, and it’s the truth,  _really._ She feels lighter, even as her heart is aching beneath her chest, and she gives Marian a weak smile as she guides her through the door. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and Marian gives her a gentle wink before she leaves.

The front door closing echoes through the house, and she gives herself a moment, standing in the entryway.

“Mom?” Henry asks tentatively from behind her, and she doesn’t think she means to but she turns and engulfs him in desperate hug. 

* * *

Regina doesn’t go to her last dance class. She’s exhausted by the end of Monday, and by Wednesday she can’t decide if she wants to see Emma or not.

Henry tries to urge her to go all week, reminding her it’s the last lesson.

“We’re not a family of quitters, you know,” he tries with a smile, kicking her foot beneath the table at dinner. He's been more conscientious around her the past week than usual, given the recent talk with Marian. Which, as painful as it had been, did seem to help her. Things are still a bit fresh, but Marian's push had gotten to to— _finally_ —grieve deeply for the man that she lost. 

Regina gives him a smile, eyes crinkling just a bit. “One class shy of my dance certificate,” she clucks her tongue and wipes at her mouth with a napkin. “I think I’ve learned enough for work,” she adds, and Henry rolls his eyes.

“Probably by the third class.” Regina looks at him in surprise at the way he calls her out. He certainly is growing up—and cheeky. Henry sets his fork down slowly, face serious when he says, “I think we both know this isn’t about the class.”

"Do we?" Regina teases, but her throat feels thick, and she's certain her smile looks more like a wince. Clearing her throat, she sets the napkin back on the table and clasps her hands together, leaning on her elbows like she knows she's not supposed to. "And what is it about?" she asks. She  _does_ know, both what her reason is and what Henry's implying.

Henry looks down his nose a little, not amused by her attempt to avoid the topic, and leans his own elbows on the table to match her. "You miss Emma."

"Henry," she warns, but he shakes his head.

"You miss her, Mom, I can tell. I miss her, too." It's what she's been afraid of; her son losing someone again, feeling abandoned again. Regina's eyes narrow in concern, and she presses her lips together. Before she can say anything, Henry's shoulders drop, and he sets his arms down beside his plate. "Not like that," he says, softer.

"Like what?"

"Like it  _hurts_. Like I'm going to get angry at you, take it out on you. Again," he adds, his voice barely audible on the last word. It had taken  _months_ of therapy for Henry to accept that his anger and sense of betrayal was misplaced; his feelings about being given up turning into rage at the only target he had: his mom.

"I  _promise_ ," he says sincerely, and reaches across the table to take her hand. "I just miss having her around. She's fun." Regina curls her fingers over his palm, and squeezes. "So you don't have to worry about me, I'm all grown up. I can deal with it if things don't work out."

"All grown up?" Regina raises a brow and shakes his hand a little. "Does this mean you would like to do your own laundry? And get yourself up in the morning?"

Henry laughs low, the heaviness of the memories starting to clear. "Half grown up, then."

Regina squints at him playfully, and pulls her hand back. "That's what I thought," she murmurs, and stands up to take her plate into the kitchen. She can hear Henry follow behind her, and they clean off their plates before Regina rinses hers off, then Henry's as he hands it to her. 

"It's OK that you miss her." Regina doesn't respond, her nostrils flaring a bit as Henry presses the subject. "It's OK that you like someone. That you like her."

Setting the plates in the dishwasher, Regina nods her head and says casually, "Yes, it's alright if you like her, too. She _is_  rather fun once you get used to all that self-aware charm."

Henry reaches out and shuts the dishwasher door, and when Regina looks up he crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. You  _like_ like her."

"I _like_ like her? Yes, dear, you are quite the grown-up," she cups his cheek condescendingly, but he laughs as he waves her off. 

"I'm serious," he says, and his face falls to match the words. Taking a deep breath he holds her eyes and says, "Be  _honest_."

Sighing, Regina settles back against the counter beside the sink, and crosses her own arms, matching his defiant stare for a long moment before backing down. "If I were," she hedges, "you would be comfortable with that? With me dating?"

"I mean, obviously I don't wanna see anything even  _close_ to PDA," he gives her a warning look, and scrunches his face in disgust, "but other than that, it wouldn't bug me." His arms fall from his chest and he leans against the island across from her. Carefully, he says, "You know I barely remember my dad, right?" 

Regina swallows hard enough for her to feel the movement in her ears, and nods for him to continue. "I have kind of vague memories of him, maybe playing with both of you outside?" Henry's face twists up into a concentrated sort of grimace. "And maybe it's because I was so little, and then it was just us, but I think mostly I remember him making you smile a lot."

A sob catches in her throat, and it's so many things at once; hearing about Daniel, Henry losing him,  _her_ losing him. Mostly, it's her little boy and how lost he looks when he talks about her being happy. "He did, yes," she nods. "But no one has ever made me smile like you have, Henry."

Henry blushes, and groans, " _Mom_ ," embarrassed even without an audience. Pushing away from the counter, he gestures to the door. "I'm gonna go play online with Nick for a while, if that's cool."

"Of course," she nods and leans away from the counter herself. 

Henry starts to take a few steps toward the dining room, but turns, and rubs at the back of his neck—a habit he's clearly picked up from Emma. "She does."

Brows furrowing in confusing, Regina asks, "Excuse me?"

"Emma makes you smile that much. She makes you happy,” he shrugs. “Like,  _really_  happy. Doodle-on-your-notebook, happy.” Regina opens her mouth at the depiction of her feelings, but he continues. “And I like it when you’re happy, Mom.”

Despite how far they've clearly come, the sentiment never ceases to amaze her. And the words leave her nearly speechless. "You do?" she can't help but ask.

"Of course," he replies bashfully, clearly well past his thirteen-year-old limit on heart-to-hearts. Clearing his throat he puts one hand on the swinging door and starts to push. "So, you know, do something about it."

* * *

So she goes to the last class. She wants to find Emma there, because she wants everything to be OK when she tells Emma that she’s interested and ready. She wants Emma to have gone through the same kind of week she has, sorting things out. She wants their timing to be perfect.

It isn’t, of course. Emma isn’t there when she arrives, and before she can even begin to hope that she’s late, Will shakes his head and says, “Sorry.”

Regina holds her head up high and thanks him, before crossing the room to go set her things down, as usual. “Regina?” she hears, and tries not to wince at the voice.

“Yes, Miss Blanchard,” she turns, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Emma’s not here today,” she wrings her hands in front of her.

“I’m aware.”

“Because she wants to give you space,” she adds, more confidently. “I’ve known Emma for a long time now, and I think you know that she runs when things get hard.”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” she says, slowly, not entirely comfortable discussing Emma’s life like this.

“She’s not running now. She told me what happened,” her eyes flicker to the floor, and red rises on her cheeks. “And she doesn’t want to push you into a relationship.”

Her jaw clenches at the thought of  _Miss Blanchard_  knowing about her relationship with Emma—and potentially, her reluctance for a romantic one—but she breathes out slowly at the information. “I see.”

“She’s at our apartment right now, if you’d like to go speak with her.” Mary Margaret gestures to the dance floor. “I think you’ve got  _this_ covered,” she smiles.

“Apartment number 23,” she adds, and before she walks away she reaches out for Regina’s wrist, and touches it lightly. “Emma has had a lot of people taken away from her. She doesn’t walk away from the important ones lightly.”

* * *

She stands outside the door for a full minute before she knocks. Regina hears noise on the other side of the door, footsteps getting closer and then the door opens.

“Regina?” Emma’s eyes are wide in surprise, and she folds the sides of her open sweatshirt over her stomach.  “What are you—”

“You’re  _infuriating_ , Miss Swan,” she says sharply.

Arms dropping to her sides, she asks, “Excuse me?”

“We’re partners for three months, and suddenly you just decide to start skipping classes?”

Emma furrows her brow. “There are other people in the class.”

“That’s not the point, Miss Swan.  _You_  are my partner. You.”

“Look,” she leans against the door, and shakes her head. “I thought it would be best to get some space, alright?” Regina snorts out a humorless laugh, and Emma asks, “What?”

“I think we both know it’s a little late for that.”

“Regina, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she sighs, and sounds utterly exhausted.

“Neither did I,” Regina grits her teeth. “And yet it did.”

“And I’m  _sorry_ , OK?” This time Emma steps back from the door, a silent invitation. Regina crosses into the apartment and Emma runs her hands through her hair as the door swings shut. “Jesus, OK, I don’t know how else to say I’m sorry!

“I thought we could do the friends thing, I swear.” She groans, and Regina crosses her arms in front of her chest. “But  _god_ , it just made it worse, didn’t it? I’m sorry,” she repeats, and Regina shakes her head.

“You should be,” Regina says angrily.

“I am!”

Regina ignores Emma’s response. “I wasn’t looking for a relationship, I didn’t  _want_  a relationship, and I wasn’t  _ready_  for a relationship,” she narrows her eyes, Emma looking back at her, frustration clear on her face.

“I’m not gonna say it again, OK, I—”

“I thought,” she adds, her brows furrowing. “Truly, I didn’t think I was. And then I got stuck with  _you_ —you, who makes inane references and can’t bowl and starts fights with my son—”

“I never  _actually_  tried to fight—”

“—and you drive that  _hideous_  car and wear that ridiculous jacket, even when it’s 90 degrees outside, and you got stuck in my life like gum on the bottom of my shoe—”

“Hey!”

“And the worst part of everything is that you stole my heart without either of us wanting it.” She sucks in a breath quickly, a bit in shock at her own admission. “I didn’t even know it could happen,” she whispers.

Emma’s offended expression makes way for surprise, and then something softer; awe. “Regina,” she says softly, but makes no move toward her.

“And as it turns out,” she stands up straighter, hands clenching at her sides as she takes a deep breath. “They’re all stupid reasons not to date you.”

Emma stills, her eyes bright as she watches Regina. “What?”

“You wanted me to have a worse reason not to date you, Miss Swan,” she flips her hair back from her face a bit self-consciously, her urgency fading. “And, as it turns out, they’re all equally terrible.

“I didn’t want to bring someone into Henry’s life that he could lose, and then it happened anyway. And, I was forced to realize, that Henry wasn’t the only one I was worried for.”

Emma licks her lips, and takes a little step closer. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want space, Emma,” she murmurs, and closes the distance between them. “I want to work toward you.”

“Work  _toward_ —” she starts to question, but Regina just shakes her head and reaches for Emma’s wrists, tugging her close as she kisses her.

It’s desperate and long-coming and makes Regina ache in the most pleasant way. And when Emma pulls back, she doesn’t stop or turn or leave; she just smiles at Regina and kisses her again, wraps her arms around Regina’s back holds her close.

When Regina starts to get dizzy she lets go of Emma’s lips, and presses her nose into the curve of her neck, inhales. “I didn’t want space, either,” Emma whispers into the shell of her ear, and when Regina breathes over her skin Emma walks her back to the door.

Her shoulder blades hit the wood and she smiles as Emma pulls her off of it a bit, cushions her back with one arm as the other braces beside her head. It’s a dark night outside a club, brick beneath her, and a soft night inside her living room with Emma’s taste on her lips and she’s sighing before she can stop herself.

Emma dips down to catch her lips again, and she presses frustratingly chaste pecks there once, twice, and then settles with her forehead against Regina’s.

Her heart is pounding and her body is too hot, her voice thick when she asks, “Do you want space now?” Emma pulls back a bit and Regina opens her eyes to see Emma smiling, warm and easy and content.

“God, no,” she laughs, eyes on Regina’s lips before they meet hers again. “Do you?”

“Not even from this  _awful_ apartment,” she raises a brow, looking at the floral couch in the corner of the living space.

“Well that I can fix,” she steps back, taking Regina’s hand and leading her down a hall and into Emma’s bedroom.

“Somewhat,” Regina teases, but turns to shut her bedroom door before she sits on the bed and reaches out to pull Emma down with her.

“Not all of us can have a mansion, you know,” she whispers into Regina’s neck as she settles on top of her, one thigh falling between her legs and pushing up the black skirt of her dress.

“ _Oh_ ,” Regina moans, head tilting back as Emma’s tongue traces the long column of her throat. Her hands push at the sweatshirt Emma wears until she’s down to a tank top, and Regina can’t help but run her hands over Emma’s biceps.

“I  _knew_  it,” Emma pulls back to gloat, lowering herself a bit to put more strain on her muscles.

Face heating a bit at being so obvious, Regina slips her hands back to Emma’s waist, pushing up the tank top as she murmurs, “Your arrogance on the matter is decidedly  _less_  appealing, Emma.”

“I’m sure,” she smirks, and pulls back for a moment to look down at her.

Regina’s hands slow, and she sits up a little, knees still bracketing Emma’s thigh. “What?”

“I  _can_  bowl, you know,” she defends, and Regina tilts her head back to laugh.

“I’m sure,” Regina throws back, and then Emma is pushing at the skirt of her dress until it’s almost to her hips. “The zipper,” Regina shakes her head, and leans forward so Emma can pull her forward and unzip the back in one long movement.

The air is cold on her skin and she shivers a little, before shrugging her arms back out of it and letting it pool down at her waist. Emma kisses her again, before laying her back, and then slides the dress off to the floor, her nylons shortly after, her shoes long gone. Emma pushes her hair back from her face, and runs her hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and then over the thin cups of her bra. The light touch makes Regina’s breath catch, and she opens her eyes to see Emma on her knees between her legs, watching her face.

Slowly, her fingers reach up for the necklace resting between her breasts, almost forgotten. “Emma,” she starts, self-conscious at the heavy reminder of her past and fairly recent concerns.

But Emma strokes her finger over the chain, following the curve of her breast to the sternum, where the ring sits atop the center gore of her bra. “Can I?” Emma asks, and touches the clasp behind her neck with one hand. After a long moment, Regina nods, and Emma opens the clasp. She slips the chain around Regina’s neck and refastens it, before she sets the ring gently on the nightstand beside her bed.

For the first time, she doesn’t feel  _bare_  without the metal. Doesn’t feel hollow and lost like she needs the chain to cling to the memory of her husband.

Emma kisses the valley between her breasts softly, slowly, and when she reaches the apex of Regina’s thighs, she looks up at her before she starts to slip the panties off of her body.

“ _Emma_ ,” Regina breathes, fingers tangling in her hair as her thighs part, her body as open to Emma as the rest of her. Emma doesn’t touch her right away, just rests in the cradle of her legs, and presses soft kisses to the inside of her thighs. Up and up and down until she lets out a shuddering  _Em-ma_ , her hips lifting up off of the bed with her desire.

Emma's mouth is hot, her tongue strong and sure and relentless as she tastes her, open-mouthed and as hungry as Regina’s been for weeks. Regina’s fingers dig into the bedsheets on either side of her hips, her bottom lip gripped between her teeth. She can barely catch her breath, managing shuddering almost-hiccups as her back arcs higher and higher, toes curling and flexing as pinpricks start to dance along her tensed muscles.

“Please,” she gasps, and Emma smiles into her skin, murmuring how good she tastes and feels and smells, how hot she is and how much she wants to be inside her before she slips two fingers toward her and does just that.

She comes beneath Emma,  _around_  Emma, and when Emma slides up her body—fingers stroking the back of her bra to unhook it, her body trembling with each slight touch—and kisses her so deeply, she wants to come  _with_  Emma.

Emma leans into her side, the front of her body pressed against her shoulder, her waist, her hip. She leans back from the kiss, and Emma smiles against Regina’s ear. “Too arrogant, Regina?”

Regina bites back her smile and rolls Emma onto her back until Regina can sit astride her hips, letting her bra fall to the bed as Emma looks up at her with hooded eyes.

Leaning down, she pushes Emma’s tank top up, over her stomach and bare breasts and long, long hair. Dropping it down to the side of the bed, Regina raises an eyebrow before she teases at one of Emma’s nipples with her teeth before wetting the bud with her tongue.

Emma’s hands settle on her hips, and when Regina’s fingers glide through the wet heat between her thighs, she groans, and matches Regina’s movements. Head tilted back a bit, she finally breathes out, “We’ll see, Miss Swan.”

 


	5. and I'm tango'd up in you (epilogue)

“Ugh, sorry Em,” Henry groans, and steps back from Emma with a sigh as Regina steps into the living room. Looking around, she notices their furniture pushed back against the walls, and her area rug rolled up behind the couch. "I keep messing up," Henry breathes out with a huff.

“No way, kid,” Emma disagrees, and holds her hands out in her frame, flicking her fingers toward herself to gesture him back. Henry looks at her skeptically, but takes lagging steps back into her space. Her hands correct his posture quickly, nudging him with her elbow here and there until he rolls his eyes and smiles. "You ever seen  _Scent of a Woman_?”

Henry's frame sags a bit, and he asks "What?"

Emma shakes her head. “Yeah, of course you haven’t, you’re fifteen.” Regina stifles her smile at the scene and leans against the archway, careful not to disturb the picture of Daniel on the low side table beside it.

"It's a movie," Emma says slowly, and drops his hand to turn up the volume on the stereo. The sharp sounds of a violin grow louder, and Emma takes his hand again. "My point is,” she says slowly, like she’s imparting great wisdom, "there are no mistakes in the tango."

"Good," Henry says self-deprecatingly, as he follows Emma, and watches his feet. 

“That’s why your perfectionist mom likes it so much," she stage whispers, and turns Henry so that she can look over his shoulder to smirk at Regina, clearly aware she was in the room.

Regina raises an eyebrow in challenge and asks, " _Excuse_  me?” Emma ignores the question and winks at her, taking slow steps with Henry as she counts out loud. "Miss Swan, perhaps you would like to explain what you've done to the furniture?"

“Emma’s teaching me to dance,” Henry answers with a smile over his shoulder. They turn, and he steps on Emma's foot. "Sorry," he winces at Emma, and then tells Regina, "It’s not going well.”

"And here I thought you two were supposed to be picking a movie for us to watch," Regina says.

Emma stops them, and shrugs her shoulders to gesture to their position. "Yeah, well we kind of got sidetracked."

" _Emma_ got sidetracked," Henry corrects with a smirk.

Looking over at Regina, Emma says, low, "He said there was going to be a dance at school, and he didn't know how."

"I didn't mean you needed to teach me right this second."

"Nah, too bad," Emma shakes her head, and holds up her arms into a better frame. "Kid needs to learn, right?" she asks Regina.

"Mmm,” Regina hums, and crosses the room to sit down on the edge of the couch. “Well, then, let me see how you've done.”

"Ready, kid?" She counts out loud, and then directs Henry through the steps. The movements are awkward and slow, but after a few combinations they start to fall into the rhythm.

"Shall I get our movie ready while you finish turning Henry into Fred Astaire?"

" _Mom_ ," he groans, but his steps don't falter.

"We could watch _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ ," Emma says, and when they turn she's smirking at Regina. "It's got dancing and _spies._ Not that you'd know anything about either of those, right Regina?" Regina rolls her eyes at Emma's obnoxious smile. 

Henry starts to grow more confident with a few more steps, and Emma refocuses on him as she says, “See! You’re getting it. No mistakes.”

“You’re doing wonderfully, Henry,” Regina encourages from her spot. “Emma, on the other hand,” she stands, and narrows her eyes critically, “you seem to be a bit out of practice without those classes,” she clucks her tongue and continues to circle them. 

“Oh?” Emma asks, and before Regina can process it, Emma is out of Henry’s arms and into hers, pulling her close. “Would you rather I move back in with Mary Margaret and brush up?”

Emma leads her back, and to the side, and again until she can dip Regina, back. One leg comes up on reflex, and her hand flies to the back of Emma’s neck as Emma kisses her, long and deep, and she’s a little breathless when they part. Smiling, her eyes glint darkly as she whispers, “Don’t you dare.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was in response to an anon request on tumblr, asking me to write a SQ fic for one of the femslash AUs on [this list](http://wistfulwatcher.tumblr.com/post/118890102702/i-need-more-femslash-aus%22).
> 
> And a little disclaimer: I have no experience with ballroom dancing (outside of watching a crapton of dance movies and shows), nor with rock climbing, so apologies for any butchering of technical descriptions or improper actions.


End file.
